


Sharp Bits and Safe Paths

by midgetnazgul



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, tw: discussion of rape, tw: mention/triggering of psychological triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:20:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4146156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midgetnazgul/pseuds/midgetnazgul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John learns Sherlock sacrificed much more than he ever could have believed in his time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE see all trigger warnings and tags before reading!! Assume tags apply to every chapter.
> 
> This is a prompt fill from the LJ Kink Meme. OP's original prompt:
> 
> _After getting together and starting down the path towards sexual intimacy, Sherlock starts to struggle over the tug-of-war decision in his head about whether or not he should tell John about his past nonconsensual sexual experience (it could be recent while he was gone or long ago or when he was a child). Sherlock is struggling a lot with the "I should/I should not" scenarios and it's starting to show._
> 
> _Sherlock goes to someone who knows about it (it can be Mycroft or Lestrade) to talk about it because he's got no one else he can trust with it. Maybe:_  
>  "you should tell him, what if he does something triggering to you?"  
> "he already has." D=
> 
> _and/or "would you be able to protect yourself from him?"_  
>  "no. I'd never say no to John."
> 
> _When Sherlock finally decides to tell John, he struggles with that too. To the point where he asks Mycroft (or Lestrade) to tell John for him. Whether Sherlock ends up doing it himself or not is up to author._
> 
> Thank you again to OP for the opportunity, and my to anon readers on the kink meme that provided such wonderful feedback.
> 
> Beta'd by the delightful EditsandSnark, a friend on Twitter.

                John hadn't meant to. 

                After all, he hadn't _known_ , so how on Earth could he have done it on purpose? _Obviously._  

                And yet here Sherlock was, in the shower, head to tile and water hot as could be tolerated in an effort to calm himself down. As if it had happened all over again. As if _John,_ of all people, were capable of such a thing. John had begun to make Sherlock feel loved and wanted and _home_ in a way he'd never felt in his life. A person who made you feel that good about yourself should and _would_ never touch you in a way that made you feel like...like _this..._ with intention and purpose. Sherlock was overreacting entirely – John was good and wonderful and warm and _perfect_. It nauseated him more to think he could even begin to correlate John with something so horrifying. 

 _Stop. Panicking._  

                It didn't work. He was usually so good about that; _why_ wasn't it working? Again, he tried pumping his mental brakes. Panicking about panic wasn't going to help anything. 

                “Going to the shop,” came John's warm tenor through the door. Sherlock flinched and had never hated himself more. 

                “Right,” he called back with an astounding level of calm. Thuds of footsteps slowly faded out, and he just caught the sound of the door downstairs shutting as John left. 

                What should have been a simple and very-much welcome morning snog session in bed had taken a nasty turn for the worse. By nature, the two of them were cheeky and competitive, and that seemed also to be a trend in their affections for each other. Playful fingers and nudges here and there, meant to titillate and tease as the two of them felt their way along he physical side of their budding relationship. So Sherlock had been doing earlier, dancing light fingers along John's ribcage, where he'd long since discovered was ticklish. It had netted something shamefully close to giggling from the both of them until suddenly John had snatched Sherlock's wrist in an iron grip to halt the teasing, and he'd gotten in close to nip Sherlock's ear. 

                “Gotcha,” John had said, low and amorous. Not a hint of threat whatsoever. Very clearly a simple action to change the tone towards more serious arousal and entice Sherlock further. Nothing more. Instead, Sherlock had gone stock-still and wide-eyed where he lay. However, by the time John pulled away to really look at Sherlock and had just begun to notice something was wrong, Sherlock managed to rally himself, roll the two of them over and make John forget the whole two-second event with a few more passionate kisses. After that, he'd made a rapid but polite and unassuming exit under the guise of a shower and now, here he was. His wrist still seemed to burn from the touch, and being alone with no other thought to distract him had made the whole situation worse. 

                Still, at least John didn't suspect or know. That was good. Right? 

~ 

                The following week didn't go well. Sherlock lost all sense of emotional context – at times he'd all but hover around John, eager for even the smallest touch, only to shun him entirely hours later. John was...irritated wasn't quite the right word for it, but he definitely didn't like it; however, he seemed to be chalking it up to Sherlock being Sherlock and being patient in hopes it would pass. A measure of neuroticism wasn't exactly unexpected of the detective. So, for a while, Sherlock rode on that.  He just needed a little time to think, _think_ , and he'd make a decision. 

                As part of that, Sherlock took to his mind palace for analysis. Normally, this was standard protocol, easy as breathing. But in this, too, it became...tricky. These particular memories required caution. His expansive memory map, his most comfortable of comfort zones, had been tainted since...the event. Obviously there was a system for the memory map, and with it a storage method, but that didn't seem to apply to _these_ memories. Any corner he turned, and door he opened, the risk of them being there unwarranted was small but constant even on good days. They roamed the halls, sometimes in one conglomerate cloud, sometimes split off into single moments and frames and spread out in myriad, seemingly innocuous and unrelated locations. It took time and delicacy to turn the matter over in his proverbial hands, so he began spending more and more time in it. 

                John would never leave him over this, Sherlock knew. He didn't worry about that at all. What scared him was the inevitable change that would occur. John would be _careful._ Being the loving, concerned, and naturally caring man that he was, _being careful_ would be John's first and most aggressive reaction. Sherlock would be something that needed _fixing_ and _handling_ and nothing terrified him more than that. He was doing just fine, thankyouverymuch, and the thought of turning into some human-sugar-glass-bauble made him irrationally angry and short of breath. 

                Within a week and a half, he was spending hours at a time locked away in his mind palace, and John had begun to notice. That, in turn, did nothing to help expedite Sherlock's work in deciding what to do, as the need for discretion battled with his want to spend time with John in peace. The peace he wanted, however, was incredibly elusive; every word, every gesture John made was suddenly and inexplicably loaded. Affection from John became both craved and repulsive, and the little flashes of hurt in John's trying-to-be-understanding eyes cut deep. If a simple bit of snogging put Sherlock as far off as he already was, how was he going to handle actual sex? That thought involuntarily burrowed deep and attached itself without remorse. It reminded Sherlock of its existence every time he considered his options – _it doesn't matter what you do. This is how it is, now._  

                By the time week two began, Sherlock had all but shut himself off entirely. It was proving entirely too difficult to both indulge in John's warmth _and_ come to a decision as to what he should do, so Sherlock did the only rational thing – removed the distraction. Compartmentalisation was the best answer; Sherlock did his best to ignore the nebulous almost-nausea he felt in doing so and told himself to _focus._

                One afternoon, as Sherlock spent yet more interminable hours in his mind palace, heavy jerks broke his concentration and he resurfaced in reality, flailing in reaction. 

                “What _the hell—“_ he spat. John sat alongside him, looking nervous. 

                “You were,” John started, but the glare Sherlock gave him was so poisonous, he stalled for a moment. He tried again. “Twitching. Jerking around. I thought...maybe you were asleep. Having a ni—“ 

                Sherlock didn't let John finish the sentence, launching off the couch and towards the door for his coat. John gibbered incredulously. 

                “Where are you _going_?” 

                “Out.” At the last moment before he shut the door behind him, he just managed: “Be back in a bit.” 

                Even though Sherlock never looked back, his imagination etched his partner's heartbroken expression in his mind anyway. 

                A half-hour later, he stalked through the entrance to the Diogenes Club, down the hidden staircase and elbowed roughly past Anthea to enter Mycroft's office unannounced. 

                “What on _Earth_ is this, Sherlock, even you know better than to just—“ 

                “I need to speak with you.” 

                Mycroft was halfway to shouting, mouth open and shoulders bristling, until his signature up-and-down glance took his little brother in. Anthea stood at the threshold, peeking in. Mycroft looked past Sherlock, to her. 

                “Cancel my three o' clock. Absolutely no interruptions for the next hour. Shut the door.” 

                Anthea did so without surprise or question. Mycroft's lips pursed briefly and he took his seat again. He didn't offer Sherlock one – he wasn't going to take it. As if on cue, Sherlock began to pace, fingertips of his right hand rubbing against his thumb in his usual nervous tic. Mycroft stayed silent, ready to let his brother break the ice first. 

                “I can't decide. I don't...know....” 

                Sherlock couldn't quite finish the confession. Just getting that far in admitting he didn't know what to do was a small miracle. Mycroft's eyebrows shot up and he leant onto his elbows on his desk. 

                “John doesn't _know_?” he asked in a rare show of genuine surprise. 

                “Of _course_ he doesn't!” Sherlock bit back without looking up from his pacing. “I know you take me for an idiot, but surely you know I'm better than that.” 

                “On the contrary, brother mine,” Mycroft replied too quickly with his usual sarcasm, and instantly regretted it. 

                “Fuck off.” 

                Mycroft took the hit with little more than a pinched face. 

                “So you didn't tell him before. What changed your mind n—…ah, I see. The developments. Logical conclusion. Consider, however, Sherlock: what if John unwittingly does something to trigger your memory?” 

                It surprised and struck deeper in Mycroft far more than he was willing to admit when Sherlock stopped pacing, still staring at the floor and breathing more heavily than he should. Sherlock mumbled unintelligibly. 

                “Sherlock—“Mycroft tried with extremely uncharacteristic gentleness. 

                “He already has!” Sherlock yelled over his older brother, at last bringing his head up to look Mycroft in the eyes.  His hands were fisted at his sides, and Mycroft could tell, even with the massive coat on, that he was shaking. Sherlock resumed pacing, more aggressively this time. “I am _better_ than that, Mycroft. I _am_.” 

                “Better...is perhaps not necessary, here.” 

                That stopped Sherlock cold, and as ever, Mycroft remained pragmatic enough to know when he had an advantage to push in making his point. 

                “Consider further: if John does it again, will you have the wherewithal to stop him?” 

                At last, Sherlock sat, but in more of a defeated ooze into the chair than setting himself down. He took out a cigarette and for once Mycroft didn't argue with it as he lit and it took a very long introductory drag on it. His arms draped over each armrest limply, cigarette barely sticking between his fingers. His head fell back onto the chair and he blew the smoke at the ceiling. 

                “I couldn't possibly say no to John,” he said at last, just above a whisper. 

                Mycroft was not a man to appear _crestfallen_ often, but with this uncommon show of candour from Sherlock, the natural predisposition of elder brothers to watch over younger ones kicked into overdrive, and Mycroft couldn't be bothered to hide the externalisation in his expression. Sherlock was too busy staring emptily into the wood grain of the desk in front of him to notice, anyway. Mycroft's mind went entirely blank. Forget fieldwork, this was _very_ much not his milieu. He hadn't known what to do in the immediate aftermath, and that still remained now. Part of that was his difficulty in approaching it as it needed to be – with sentimentality – but even greater than that was the shame that stymied his thought. Mycroft had Fucked Up, in one of the worst ways he possibly could have. He had been careless, let Something Happen to Sherlock that never should have, and Mycroft didn't know how to even begin to handle that. To say nothing of Sherlock himself, Mycroft had let _John_ down, too, indirectly. In retrospect, Mycroft should have realised John still hadn't learnt what had happened, because if he had, the doctor would have marched out to find Mycroft and likely beat him senseless for the transgression. 

                Not that Mycroft didn't deserve it. 

                “Your hesitation is....understandable,” Mycroft began tentatively. “But I think the answers to my questions rather provide you with reason all on their own. But as a further thought, I would also remind you how John would react if he learnt by accident. Perhaps a poor reaction to memory like you have already experienced, or he somehow found out from an external source, however unlikely. Because he will figure it out, Sherlock, one way or another. Despite whatever I would say at any other time, he isn't stupid.” 

                “He's angry with me,” Sherlock responded, sullen and flat. “Realising I've been keeping the truth from him won't help.” 

                “Your behaviour up until now corresponds to many situations if he doesn't understand the source, most likely appearing as a growing disinterest in your relationship. Of course he's upset. This provides clarification, and of a kind that he will undoubtedly sympathise with. John will almost certainly be angered by your explanation, but the very last person on Earth he will be angry with is _you._ ” 

                Sherlock barely seemed to be paying attention. His expression, while bland and distant, still trended towards worry – he was playing doomsday scenarios in his head. 

                “My _point_ ,” Mycroft said a little louder than necessary to stir his brother, “is that if you are unwilling to open up to John for the sake of yourself, do it because if John learns about it from somewhere else, he will be much more deeply hurt and inevitably overreact.” 

                Instead of the understanding and epiphany Mycroft expected to dawn on Sherlock's face, indignation tilted his eyebrows and made him bare his teeth. 

                “You wouldn't fucking _dare._ Of all the ways you've meddled in my life, Mycroft, I swear to God if you butt in now, there will be _retribution._ Read what you will from me coming to speak to you, but this is in _no_ way your place to _involve yourself_. _”_

“You misunderstand. I have absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort,” Mycroft responded. Where normally Mycroft might have drawled that sentence with condescending sarcasm to mock Sherlock for so completely missing the point, he wouldn't imagine doing now. He wasn't very good at this sort of thing, but at least he knew _that_. His brother felt cornered and upset and distracted – all understandable in his situation. “You are correct. I know my place, Sherlock, perhaps better than _you_ do. I cannot do this for you, _nor_ can I do what John can to help you.” 

                At last, Sherlock listened. He played it all back in his head, put it in the right order and tone as he should have heard it the first time. A touch of solace loosened his shoulders. It wasn't much, but after the past two weeks, it was a godsend. 

                “You...are right. The logic is sound.”               

                Sherlock and logic hadn't been on good terms as of late, however. He dared himself to meet Mycroft's eyes and saw real sympathy there – his brother's own brand, of course, shown in a slightly less aggressive stare and a tiny frown in the corners of his mouth. That was a bit much to take, so Sherlock stood in a rush and turned away. Mycroft wasn't bothered; he'd have done the same. 

                “Go home. Talk to John. Whatever apprehension you feel will dissipate once you do, at least in the majority. Deep down, you know it's true. It isn't like you to balk in the face of the thousandth-percent chance. You are still entirely in control of this.” 

                _Control_. There it was, again, taunting him as it had when he'd been shot...better not to think about that right now. Neither he nor John were entirely recovered from...all that. Still, this was a sight better than controlling involuntary bodily functions. That put a bit of wind back in his sails. He squared his shoulders and did his best to ride on his tiny wave of confidence. 

                “Very well, I shall,” he replied towards the door with far more purposefulness than he felt, and marched off without ever looking back at his brother. Mycroft continued watching the door long after Sherlock disappeared through it, fretting. At length, he turned his attention to his laptop, open to the cameras at 221B, and casually turned recording off. 

~ 

                At home, John was hard at work washing the dishes. Washing was perhaps a relative term – the more accurate description was _aggressively scrubbing into oblivion_. He'd been at it for over two hours, cleaning the flat just to keep himself moving. If he stopped, everything stewing inside was liable to boil over entirely and end in him making an even bigger mess for throwing things about. It wasn't really rage. He _was_ angry, certainly, but without a reason to attribute it to, it flailed rather pointlessly as frustrated concern instead. Sherlock had taken off with hardly more than a word outside of a promise to return. John hung onto that much more desperately than he wanted to admit; when people abandoned the house like Sherlock had, there was a frighteningly measurable chance they _weren't_ coming back. 

                _Sherlock wouldn't leave like that._

But he had before.

 _It's different now, we're both different now._                

                Different enough, though? 

                This had been his internal back-and-forth all day, and he was helpless to stop it. It was forgivable, then, that when Sherlock slipped back up the stairs and shut the door in the kitchen behind him, John visibly jumped in surprise and alarm. He took a moment to recover himself and dry his hands before turning back around and leaning against the counter, the table separating them. 

                Sherlock fidgeted. He was incredibly nervous in a way John had never seen him. 

                “I need to speak with you.”

                 “About bloody time,” slipped out of John's mouth before he could stop himself. 


	2. Chapter 2

                John instantly regretted his tone, but the guilt was almost immediately overwritten by surprise. Sherlock _balked_. And _shrunk._ That was new. John raised a finger in sign to halt and chewed his lip while finding his words. 

                “No, that...that isn't fair. Sorry,” he opened, though inwardly he really thought he shouldn't be the one apologising, “I can tell you're making an effort, and I'm not helping. Start over, go ahead.” 

                But Sherlock didn't start again; he turned an odd shade of white and rocked a bit on his heels, as if he was thinking about pacing but couldn't quite commit to actually moving. John didn't pipe up just yet; if Sherlock was this nervous, he was likely to bolt if John interrupted his thoughts. 

                It didn't help. He bolted anyway and stalked the flat, hands folded and at his face. As he spun this way and that, the coat spun and fluttered gracefully in juxtaposition to the wearer's stiff and rigid manner. At a glance, it looked for all the world like his usual manic thought process, as if he were on a case, but John's familiarity saw deeper and it told a different story. The pit lingering in his stomach all day only deepened for the strange behavior, as well as the fact John _had no idea_ what to expect of it. 

                Occasionally Sherlock would stop in his tracks, staring at John, open palms up and towards him as if to begin a thought. But a glint of tangible fear would spark in his eyes, his mouth would snap shut, and he'd start pacing again. John watched this effort a few times over before stepping into the living room and crossing his arms. 

                “Sherlock?” was all he could summon as his question. Was something wrong? Was this merely an apology and Sherlock simply didn't know how to begin? Or even Sherlock trying to bridge the gap and move on without comment? That last one would really piss John off if Sherlock tried it, but the possibility was likely. 

                Again, Sherlock came to a stop and his expression deteriorated into desperation. His irises ping-ponged in his head, trying to keep John's gaze for half a second before cowardice took over andhe looked everywhere _but_ John. Despite himself, John gave a massive sigh of confusion and frustration, which triggered Sherlock to stride right on past him and into his room. Thankfully he didn't shut the door, but it seemed he hadn't only because he was too distracted, as he whipped out his phone and tapped out a frantic text. 

_I can't do this. I was wrong. I would prefer you meddle. -SH_

_...please. - SH_

                Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off his phone for the entire grueling minute before a reply arrived. All the while, he could feel John's eyes drilling into his temple where he stood at the threshold. 

                _Recall what I said, Sherlock. I know my place, and this is not it. Your hesitation does not change that fact. - M_

                Just as Sherlock was preparing to throw his phone at the wall, another text came in. 

                _All you have to do is begin. Once you manage that, it will fall into place for you. - M_

_I have every confidence in you. - M_

~

                Sherlock's arm fell limp at his side and he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. The expression torn between anguish and fear severed John's last nerve. He pulled away from the doorway, approached Sherlock and pulled him by the shoulder to make them face each other. He summoned his last kernel of patience and spoke. 

                “ _Please_ tell me what this is. You are _scaring_ me, Sherlock.” 

                That seemed to bring him mostly back to himself. He looked down at his phone once more, and John just caught the little text bubbles and the recipient. Panic began to flood John's chest. What on Earth could Sherlock tell _Mycroft_ he couldn't tell him? 

                “A walk,” Sherlock mumbled. 

                “You are _not_ lea—“ 

                “Both of us. I can't...I can't stay here. It won't work here.” 

                “Sherlock,” John began in exasperation. 

                “No, I am entirely serious. I _cannot_ talk here. This is our home. I don't want to...” he gesticulated in frustration, unable to properly articulate his thought. “ _Mar_ it.” 

                John's confusion only deepened, but the usage of 'our' re-stoked his patience. 

                “Okay. A walk, then. If that's...what you need,” John replied, weakly throwing up his hands. 

                “It is.” For the first time, Sherlock voluntarily held John's eyes. “Thank you. And...you deserve an apology. I’m not doing this on purpose.” 

                “Right. I'll...trust you on that,” John conceded. 

~ 

                Ten minutes later, they were walking side by side in the general direction of the nearby park. Sherlock wasn't talking, but John understood that, since the street was rather busy with people around them. Shuffling in the corner of his eye caught his attention just in time to see Sherlock abruptly seize his hand. Calm at last settled over John for it and, though Sherlock was still resolutely staring off down the street, he still gave his partner a crack of a reassuring smile. Whatever this was, it wasn't _them_ , John understood that now. Anything else, John could handle. His worry continued, but worry was manageable with the other massive pile of emotions done away with. 

                They arrived at the park proper, but rather than take a bench, Sherlock wandered on past it towards a cluster of trees off the main walking path. Their hands disconnected but John let Sherlock have the free space he clearly needed. 

                _I just need to start,_ Sherlock reminded himself. Once again, Mycroft was irritatingly correct. _I'll figure out the rest._

                “When I was away,” he opened, and did his best to ignore his self-disgust for the cracking in his voice, “as I'm sure you have grasped, I did much undercover work.” 

                John's eyebrows shot up. Sherlock didn't talk much about the time he was gone, and John respected that. He didn't really know how much he wanted to know, anyway. But since the opportunities to hear Sherlock talk about it were so few, John wasn't going to let it go to waste. And besides, it was clearly something Sherlock _needed_ to talk about, for whatever reason. So John merely nodded and stood where he was, hands at his back. To his credit, Sherlock was no longer pacing, but he looked this way and that at nothing as he spoke. 

                “Dismantling Moriarty's organisation required operating on many levels of importance in a multiplicity of crime syndicates. Most of my travel was best done moving on their already-existing transportation and smuggling lines, changing disguises on the way and reemerging with a new identity. Such was the case when I was working in southeastern Europe – having finished an assignment, I was instructed to make my way for China.” 

                That was a start, yes. Context, important. Not a distraction as long as he didn't start rambling. John had relaxed, which helped Sherlock's peace of mind. John was open and ready to listen, if a little lost. Once again, Mycroft had been correct in assuming John's frame of mind. Now that the relationship wasn't under threat, he was fine. Best he be as calm as possible to start. 

                “Opiates, of course,” he continued, “move quite freely between both ends of the continent overland as well as over the Indian Ocean. I opted to act as a drug mule as my transportation. Crude, but free and effective. And once arrived and...unpacked, I was not expected to report anywhere else. Couldn't haveused the same mules over and over, after all. Might have been noticed over time.” 

                John couldn't help but wince. However cheap, he couldn't ignore its inherent danger. All the best planning in the world couldn't anticipate the immutable force of biology. What if a packet ruptured? Dead in minutes of the worst possible overdose. _This_ was why he didn't want to know too much; Sherlock had indeed indulged in incredibly dangerous activities to accomplish his goal. 

                “Right. Well, you know exactly how I feel about that, so we'll just skip my lecture. Go on,” John offered. 

                “Sedation—“ Sherlock tried, but his chest constricted to the point it was difficult to breathe. His fingertips drummed the side of his coat in anxiety. John's face pulled in a large frown; Sherlock was growing fidgety and it tugged ominously at his gut to watch. 

                _You started – you can finish._

                “Sedation is common for preparation of a mule for carrying cargo, for obvious reasons. I'd experienced it before, and on top of that, having excellent self-control of my body as I do makes it rather a non-issue. I arrived at my specified time, was ushered to a room. Nothing amiss. Um...” 

                The constriction remained, but now nausea joined it. It seemed so simple; he was telling a story long since past, and yet every last molecule of himself seemed to resist doing so. Like a hook had caught just under his ribcage, urging him away from John and the park and the moment under the premise of safety. Ignorance was more comfortable for John, safer for Sherlock. It would have become panic if Sherlock didn't also feel so detached from himself. The surreality of relating trauma on a perfectly nice day, at home, to someone he loved kept that panic mostly at bay, almost certain to return during the emotional comedown. 

                But that was for later. One thing at a time. 

                John remained passive in his listening but for the tilt in his head. Invested, but also still confused. It was preface, he could tell, but what on Earth could be so awful Sherlock had _this much_ trouble relating it? He'd seen Sherlock commit murder right in front of him – surely he wasn't skittish telling him of another murder of a stranger several years ago. It was something they shared in common, after all. 

                “I—I knew something was off straight away once he started. You're...well aware I have a rather high tolerance for drugs, and knowledge of how they affect me. So when I was unusually sluggish after a minute, I realised the dosage was unexpectedly high. Too high for anyone of a common size and tolerance.” 

                John's heart rocketed up into his throat. 

                “Instinct, of course, encouraged me to flee. I surprised him with how much I was able to resist, I think. He'd clearly grown...comfortable...in his modus operandi. H—however it wasn't enough; he was taller and had quite a bit of muscle mass over me. I was pinned, beaten into submission a—and...” Sherlock was essentially panting for the emotional strain he felt in speaking, so he took a last, deep breath. “Sexually assaulted.” 

                He _did_ feel a small, instantaneous wave of relief at managing to finish. It died quickly upon seeing the stricken expression on John's face. Sherlock didn't try to fill the silence – he wouldn't know what to say and John needed a moment to collect himself. 

                John choked on a breath. As Sherlock had told his story, and the outcome became more and more inevitable, he had essentially stopped breathing for the tension. Now that Sherlock had finished, John's mind emptied but for one word. 

                “Raped. You were...” he wheezed. He covered his mouth with a hand and forced himself to even out his breathing. 

                Sherlock flinched. _Sexual assault_ was...more sterile. Clinical, procedural. Safely detached from...the event and its detail. That was why he'd used the phrase. Calling it...anything else...was too loaded, too violent for him. But then, John was the kind of man who called out things for what they were, without euphemism.               

                Now it was John's turn to pace, his hands squeezing and releasing in his characteristic tic. 

                “Jesus Christ.” He turned to look at Sherlock. “I—I've been getting pissed at you for a week, thinking it was some stupid _strop_.” 

                “It's fine—“ 

                “No, it _isn't,_ I let myself get all paranoid for _myself_ and never stopped to think about what it meant for you and...” He paused in shouting at himself to really look Sherlock over. Wilted was the best description for him, with the bags under his eyes and tired hunch in his shoulders. His hands were stuffed away in his pockets, and his arms pulled into his body, making himself look smaller. All the effort and stress of the past two weeks, now released, had taken its toll. “Never mind, I'm a fucking idiot, and I need to shut up.” 

                He strode over to pull Sherlock in a tight hug; Sherlock at last seemed to give up all pretence and went limp against him. John's fingers threaded up into Sherlock's hair at the back of his head and he gave his temple a fierce kiss. 

                “I am so fucking sorry.” 

                Sherlock wordlessly shook his head against John's shoulder as a reassurance. 

                The quiet settling between them both soothed and troubled John. It was the easiest silence between the two of them in over a week, but nonetheless, John's stomach roiled over the revelation. Sherlock stayed where he was, clearly ashamed of himself on a number of levels – the story itself, his difficulty in relating it, the emotionality he showed now. He didn't quite cry, but occasionally broke into bouts of heavy breaths to contain himself. John held him all the while, opting to rub Sherlock's back when he grew particularly frayed. 

                At length they parted, but John still stayed close. His hands reached up to frame Sherlock's face, slightly pink for all his emotion. However, John stalled. He had questions, of course, but was now the right time to ask them? Was there _ever_ a right time? The doubt must have been obvious in his expression, as Sherlock turned his head to nuzzle into one of John's hands at his cheek before giving a massive sigh. 

                “You have questions.” 

                “I...yeah. But you—“ 

                Sherlock cut him off with a surprisingly vicious shake of the head. 

                “You're likely wondering how I got away. The short answer is I didn't. Once...finished, I was dumped back out into the street. It's a smart system – victims are never going to go to the police, too afraid of getting into trouble themselves for attempting to be a drug mule. I made a call to a contact before losing consciousness. By the time I came to, I was in hospital in Italy.” 

                “Mycroft.” 

                Sherlock nodded. 

                “So he knows, then.” 

                “Naturally. He saw to the...numerous medical tests I required while unconscious.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “I assure you, I am—“ 

                John pressed his thumb into Sherlock's lips to stop him speaking. 

                “You'd have told me if you weren't. I trust you.” 

                Sherlock's eyes grew a little glassy, but he nodded. 

                “That's where I went earlier. I felt compelled to...confer with him.” 

                “And what did _he_ say?” John couldn't help but ask. Mycroft would care, John didn't doubt that at all, but precisely _how_ he would try to help was difficult for John to imagine. Sherlock visibly withdrew not in body, but in shrunken expression and lowered eyes. 

                “To trust you. That it would only hurt _both_ of us next time if you accidentally—“ 

                Too late, Sherlock stopped himself mid-sentence and John's eyebrows drew together in concern. 

                “I what? _Next_ time?” 

                Now Sherlock pulled completely away, tightening his coat about his body. 

                “Sherlock, what did I do?” John tried again, plaintive this time. His gut pulled tight as Sherlock looked away, trying to find proper words. 

                “I—it's not your fault,” Sherlock started carefully. “You didn't know, you couldn't have known. This all came up because...because of two weeks ago. That morning, do you recall?” 

                Perhaps it was because of his spiralling worry, but John struggled to remember. 

                “Uh...the lie-in?” That was the last time he could recall really doing _anything_ with Sherlock in the recent past. Sherlock reluctantly nodded. 

                “Yes. You...I...I know you, I know what you were trying to do, but y-you...” he growled in frustration with himself and stalked off a few paces back towards the trees. John followed automatically, playing back what he could remember of that morning in his head, laying his new knowledge over the top. Realisation washed over in a frigid wave, and by the crestfallen look on Sherlock's face when he looked back, he knew John had put the pieces together, too. 

                “I knew it, I knew _something...”_

“No, John—“ 

                “Jesus, Sherlock, I never—“ 

                “ _John._ Be calm. I know. I just said it isn't your fault.” 

                John gritted his teeth. However much Sherlock was right, he still felt a little nauseous for it. He closed the distance between them again, tense with his eagerness to externalise his sympathy. Sherlock shied at John's bullish approach, so John forced himself to take a breath and relax a little. At last he reached down to take Sherlock's hand, gentle but firm. 

                “How badly did it affect you?” 

                Sherlock didn't answer. John grimaced, but he let it go with an understanding nod. He reached up to guide Sherlock's head down for a kiss. Sherlock took to it eagerly, starving for the affection after such a long week. John stroked at Sherlock's eyebrow with a thumb when they parted. 

                “Sorry.” 

                “I know.” 

                “Your brother is right. Now that I know, it won't happen again. I'll be more c—“ 

                Sherlock abruptly jerked away and fled. It took John a solid ten seconds to recover before jogging to catch up to him back on the path. 

                “Sherlock?” John called, inwardly wincing at how confused and desperate he sounded. This wasn't about him right now, but Sherlock's erratic behaviour still hurt. They continued deeper into the park, John only just able to keep apace with Sherlock's long, fast strides by powerwalking. 

                “Okay,” John opened again, patiently as he could manage, “I said something wrong. I can tell. But I don't understand what, Sherlock. Please, will you tell me? I can't fix it if I don't know.” 

                Despair wrinkled Sherlock's face. 

                “Careful.” 

                “What?” 

                “ _Careful!_ ” Sherlock barked, and stopped so suddenly, John nearly tripped trying to follow suit. “This is why I didn't want to tell you. You're going to be _careful_. You're going to _hover_ , a—and _watch_ and _fret_ over me. Everything's going to be tiptoeing on eggshells and avoidance like I'm...I'm... _broken,_ ” Sherlock spat, shaking as he gesticulated wildly with his irrational fury. “Like I'm an invalid. I am _not_ broken, John!” he cried, making a couple running by turn to look. 

                John's eyes went wide, and at first he was speechless. The empathetic pain he felt watching Sherlock wrestle with his trauma was joined by an unexpected swell of pride. Despite everything, Sherlock was still determined to overcome, be better than his circumstances. It was one of the things John loved and admired most about him – that tenacity. Sherlock had punctuated his outburst by pointing aggressively at John, so he took the opportunity and wrapped his hand around the shaking fist in front of him. Gentle, but confident. 

                “Quite right. You aren't. You're the toughest person I know, Sherlock,” John said quietly. Sherlock didn't expect the rapid change in tone and stood a little aghast. “And I didn't mean to imply you weren’t. Being careful doesn't mean treating you like you're made of glass. It means respecting you and making sure you...feel safe, frankly. And confident. I'm not afraid of breaking anything – you're much stronger than that. I just...need to know about the sharp bits, so I don't hurt you, and _you_ don't feel like you're hurting _me_ indirectly. D'you see?” 

                Sherlock appeared unmoved for several seconds, obviously processing, before deflating again. He covered John's hand on him with his free one. 

                “Yes,” he croaked. “I know I hurt you, pulling away. I'm not keen on continuing.” 

                “Exactly. And, y'know, maybe I might hover, or worry too much. I do that. Just tell me to fuck off, okay? Avoidance isn't going to help, but taking it head-on doesn't have to eat up every moment of our lives, either. You don't have to do it all by yourself. Tell me what you want to, when you want to, and tell me to leave you alone when you don't. That's all you have to do, I promise.” 

                Sherlock wasn't convinced, but also was hesitant to speak. Chastened, he stared down at the ground and let his arms fall; John reclaimed a single hand and pulled up close again. 

                “What is it?” 

                “I don't...know how I will react. Later,” Sherlock bleated. “If we... _when_ we...” He couldn't finish the thought for his shame and punctuated it with a heavy sigh. John shook his head. 

                “One step at a time. I know taking _anything_ slow isn't usually your method, but we'll figure it out. It's going to be _fine_. I don't care about timing, Sherlock. I have no expectations of you. Don't put any on yourself.” 

                Mentioning that lack of expectation made John realise he had been lacking in other immediate reactions. He'd gotten caught up in his mistake triggering Sherlock. He released Sherlock's hand and slipped his arms around him again, eyes sharp for the slightest possibility of bolting. But Sherlock oozed into the embrace just as he had before and relaxed further. John worried his lip behind Sherlock's back before hesitantly speaking. 

                “Goddamn it, I...I'm so glad you made it home,” he murmured, and tightened his hold. 

                Sherlock was silent for a few beats, clearly mulling the value in speaking honestly. 

                “I very nearly didn't, yes. On multiple occasions, but...that...well, I suppose I should have—“ 

                John flew back to look Sherlock in the eye but kept his hands on his shoulders. 

                “No. _Never._ ” 

                Sherlock's mouth hung open, stalled in the middle of his thought. 

                “You never could have known— _no,_ _Sherlock, not even you_ —“ he cut off Sherlock's weak contrarian eyebrow lift, “could have known what might happen, and you did everything you could have to protect yourself. It is _not_ your fault.” 

                Once again, Sherlock immediately moved to counter but it seemed entirely impulsive, as nothing further came forth. As Sherlock thought about it, John watched his natural impulse to refute dissolve and his eyes grow very soft. 

                “Yes, I suppose I did, didn't I?” he mumbled down at his feet.               

                John resumed his hug and pressed a passionate kiss to a cheekbone. 

                “Yes. I am beyond sure of it.” 

                At last, Sherlock returned the embrace and even dared to nuzzle John's neck, right there in public. Rarely was he so brazen in giving affection. 

                “I love you,” John whispered. 

                Sherlock didn't respond, but that was fine. They had long since discussed the matter; he simply wasn't ready for that yet. And knowing what John did now, he could understand that even better. Sherlock had a lot to unpack from himself just in the context of their relationship, and now there was so much more than John had anticipated from his time away. John spoke the sentiment because he was physically compelled to, after all they had been through and denied in themselves and ignored in each other — conversely, Sherlock _couldn't_ speak it for the same reason. John needed it to pour from him at the slightest provocation, uncaring of presentation or reflection of emotion because he felt _so_ much; Sherlock still kept it all even more tightly shut up inside because whenever he finally chose to, it had to be _perfect_. 

                As time passed and John truly began to digest what he'd just learnt a thought made its way to the forefront of his mind. Sherlock could feel John's shoulders tense in their continued embrace. 

                “Ask.” 

                “What happened to...him. If anything.” 

                Sherlock hummed and nodded, having anticipated the question. 

                “Three weeks later, Mycroft tracked me down again just as I was settling back into field work. He personally ran point on an operation, carved the entire core cartel out. Showed me photos for proof. Closest thing to an apology I've ever received from him in my life.” 

                “So he's dead.” 

                “When Mycroft feels he's made a mistake, because they're so rare, he tends to adopt a scorched-earth policy.” 

                John's shoulders, however, didn't release.

                 “You're angry with Mycroft. Don't be. If I did my best...loathe as I am to admit this of him, so did he.” 

                A single, small chuckle escaped John. Even now, Sherlock's core arrogance was immutable. Maybe it made him a dick sometimes, but it also gave him his strength and right now, John couldn't be more grateful for it.               

                “Right. I suppose it saves me the trouble.” 

                “Indeed.”               

                They parted with another long kiss. As John let Sherlock go, however, he seemed to weave a little on his feet. 

                “I was going to suggest going home, but...when was the last time you ate?” 

                Sherlock's eyes squinted and his expression scrunched as he tried to remember. 

                “...Tuesday?” 

                “Christ, Sherlock, it's Saturday!” 

                “Is it?” Sherlock asked lightly. 

                “Dinner, now. Then home. No arguments.” 

                Sherlock didn't have the energy to argue anyway. Now that he had crested the hill of anxiety, he was crashing big time. 

Hand in hand, they made their way back out of the park. John kept an eagle eye out for restaurants and within twenty minutes they were seated at a nearby cafe. As they sat, waiting for food, Sherlock played restlessly with his hands. 

                “Further questions?” 

                John sat back in his chair, crossed his arms and considered.

                 “You can ask anything you like, you know. We got this far.” 

                “I realise. It's more a question of whether or not I _should_.” Eventually, he shook his head. “No, it's fine. I'll let it go. That said,” he continued, leaning over the table, “whatever _you_ want to—“ 

                “Yes, yes,” Sherlock replied with his characteristic dismissiveness. 

                “I'm serious, Sherlock. Anytime. I'll shut up and listen.” 

                At first, Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and sighed, but upon seeing that John didn't lean back into his chair again, he met his partner's eyes. 

                “I know,” he answered, and after a moment's hesitation, “And I probably will.” 

                John simply gave him a confident nod and sat back again, satisfied. However, Sherlock shifted a bit suddenly in discomfort. 

                “Thank you. It's not that I thought you wouldn't understand – at least intellectually, I knew that – I simply...” 

                His thought trailed off and died, but John was unbothered by the self-doubt. 

                “Yeah,” he reassured. “I'd never try to compare our experiences, but I didn't want to talk about Afghanistan, either. So I get that part. But...talking is encouraged for a reason. It works. Even a little.” 

                Sherlock recognised the look on John's face –- the same knowing expression he'd given Sholto at his wedding. _Somewhat similar,_ indeed. 

                “I'm _not_ seeing a therapist.” 

                “Aren't you?” John replied easily, and couldn't help a smirk. He put up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't be making light of it.” 

                “No, it's fine. It's...good,” Sherlock replied, sounding the most at ease he'd been in a couple weeks. They shared a silent smile; both of them could feel the ground solidifying under them again. 


	3. Chapter 3

               An hour and a half later, John and Sherlock were stumping back up the stairs to their flat. Mrs Hudson had clearly been in, continuing the tidying-up John had begun, no doubt fretting over her boys' recent problems and using the excuse to soothe her nerves. Sherlock made a mental note to have her sent an “anonymous” bouquet in the next few days. 

                As Sherlock removed his scarf and shrugged off his coat, exhaustion hunched his shoulders further. Wonderful as it was to be home and with considerably less baggage attached to being there, he could feel all his haphazard effort in keeping himself together of late falling away. Palms came up to rest on his shoulders; he turned his head just enough to acknowledge John standing behind him, already shed of his coat and looking concerned. Dimly, Sherlock realised he must have been standing there, staring into space with coat in hand drooping onto the floor. He gave himself a little shake and finished putting everything away. 

                “Okay?” John asked. They both drifted off towards their chairs, but didn't actually sit. 

                “Tired.” 

                “Yeah. I'd be surprised if you've had ten hours of sleep _all week._ ” 

                “Five.” 

                John's face pinched with worry, and he inwardly chastised himself again for failing to think through just why Sherlock had been so out of sorts until now. He'd been right, back in the park – he'd been nothing but selfish. That stopped today, at least as much as Sherlock would let him. He wouldn't like hovering; he'd have to find a good balance. 

                Despite how tired he was, Sherlock still rebelled at the idea of turning in now. It felt like admitting a weakness. He turned to face John a little better and shuffled forward until he bumped into him, opting to lean his head onto John's – a passive-aggressive request for a hug. John acquiesced, though a tiny smirk betrayed his amusement. 

                “You should sleep.” 

                “No,” was Sherlock's petulant response. 

                That made John actually laugh, and perhaps harder than was necessary, but all his stress took the provided outlet to finally burn off. And it got a smile out of Sherlock, too, so that was worth it. They stood there for several long seconds, settling back into their usual, peacefully quiet home life. Sherlock reached out to take John's forearms in each hand. His thumbs rubbed slow, short paths back and forth near John's elbows, seemingly eager for the touch and texture of the shirt he wore. He'd missed this, the closeness, terribly. In such a short time, he'd already started taking it for granted in their relationship, and being without for the past several days had taken a toll along with everything else. 

                John's giggling eventually tapered off, leaving the two of them glancing askance at each other. Within seconds Sherlock dove in for a deep kiss, knowing John would be extra-conscious about making the first move after today. John would have voiced his gratitude were he not otherwise occupied biting into Sherlock's lower lip. The giggling had been one half of the de-stressing – this was only the natural progression. John quickly broke from Sherlock's grip and tangled his hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, making Sherlock shiver. He was incredibly sensitive to touch – something John had previously _very much_ been looking forward to taking advantage of whenever they got around to sex. He still anticipated it with fervor, but was already coaching himself to pump the brakes on the whole idea. That was something to be worked up to. 

                Sherlock got his wide grip around John's hips and tugged, pulling John from his thoughts. Though John tried to reassert his passion for their little make-out session, he stumbled a bit as he realised Sherlock was guiding them back towards their room. He recovered as best he could, but just ended up slamming Sherlock's back into the sliding door to the kitchen, where it was partially pulled out from the wall. Sherlock, to his credit, paid it little mind and merely rolled them back onto a proper course. From there it was a wandering path back to the bedroom, never parting too long from any one breathy and impatient kiss. 

                John gave a little cry of surprise as he was nearly picked up entirely off the ground and hauled onto the bed. Sherlock had never been so...forthright before. Still, it was important to let Sherlock call the shots, so he opted to simply return affection and do his best not to escalate. 

                The two of them bounced on the mattress as they landed, and as they crashed together, John could feel Sherlock hard against his thigh. That was new. His mind swam at the recognition – _oh my god_ _shitshitshit no take it easy_ – and he pulled together his full concentration of will to remind himself what was most important. Sherlock full-body ground against him as they rearranged themselves on the bed, eking a louder-than-expected moan out of John. That, however, seemed to jar Sherlock out of whatever fever had previously been feeling and his kisses slowed to an eventual stop. They lay there together with Sherlock on top, breathing just a bit heavily at each other. Inwardly, John tried not to panic at Sherlock's sudden change in mood, and he lifted a hand to push aside some errant curls. 

                “I think, perhaps...that's enough excitement for one day,” Sherlock finally said, just above a whisper. 

                “Okay.”               

                Sherlock balked a little at the easy response. He looked away off the edge of the bed. 

                “I'm s—“ 

                “Sherlock, out of all the things I have ever and _will ever_ make you apologise for, backing out of sex will never be one of them.” 

                Sherlock turned back to him, eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he chastised himself. He shouldn't be surprised at all – this was _John_ , for Christ's sake. Why was this so hard? Why did he keep questioning himself in just this one area? 

                “I thought...” he began with a massive sigh, “I wanted to. I'm...incredibly grateful for what you've done today. But...” He dropped his head onto John's chest and shook his head. “I don't understand.” John carded a sympathetic hand in the hair at the back of Sherlock's head. 

                “You know, you don't _ever_ have to,” John offered gently. Sherlock snapped up his head again. “I mean it. I thought for years you had no interest in sex of any kind anyway. I can manage.” 

                But Sherlock shook his head again, harder this time. 

                “No, you misunderstand my meaning. It isn't permanent disinterest – I _very much_ want to have sex with you, John – it's just that I...start and...and...” 

                “Freeze up.” 

                “Yes,” Sherlock admitted. He could feel a heavy blush coming on, and he hated himself for it. 

                “This is what I meant by figuring it out. We can, and we will, but it isn't going to happen instantly. Give yourself some breathing room on this.” 

                “I told you. Shouldn't that be enough?” Sherlock returned bitterly, though John knew it was meant for the situation, not John himself. 

                “Well, think of it this way. I'm...great, Sherlock,” John began. Sherlock raised a critical eyebrow but didn't interrupt. “I've never been better, healthier, _happier_ in my life, almost entirely thanks to you. Ten years ago I _never_ would havebelieved I’d make it to where I am today. But I still have nightmares, I still jump and start to panic at unexpected noises, I still look over my shoulder in places that I _know_ are totally safe. It isn't going to go away. You just have to...readjust your life so it doesn't hold you back. D'you see what I mean?” 

                Sherlock gave another depressed sigh, but nodded. He flopped back onto John's chest facedown and didn't speak further. John let him lay there for a bit and he kept up his petting, just in case Sherlock had something else to say. When nothing further came up, he rolled the two of them over so they were side-by-side. 

                “Sleep. You're exhausted,” he suggested with a kiss to the forehead. Sherlock grumbled but acquiesced, shuffling under the blankets. He appeared to have dozed off on top of John already, as he was uncoordinated. With John's help, he just managed to get out of his jacket and shirt, but didn't bother with his trousers. He reattached to John as soon as he was shirtless and within minutes fell back off again. John lingered for Sherlock's sake, though he wasn't tired himself; it was still early in the evening. 

                After an hour, when he was sure Sherlock was totally out, he carefully eased himself free. Now that he was alone, his mind had grown hazy as he tried to properly absorb everything he'd learnt. He wandered into the kitchen with the vague intent to make tea. 

                He ended up sitting at the table and crying quietly into a flannel for a while instead. 

~ 

                They both slept late; even though John had perhaps slept a bit more than Sherlock recently, it hadn't exactly been quality. John woke first and was glad for it, rare as it was to have the opportunity to watch Sherlock sleeping. In this case especially, he was much more relaxed than he ever would be while awake. John considered it a strange kind of treat, seeing Sherlock with as little pretence as humanly possible. When at last Sherlock stirred, John greeted him with a warm smile. A sad little swoop flitted in his stomach as he watched Sherlock come to, recognise his surroundings, and almost certainly recall what he'd done yesterday. His eyes darkened a bit and he shifted just barely in discomfort, but John knew better than to mention it. 

                “Morning. Sort of,” John murmured, correcting himself as he saw it was essentially noon on the alarm clock over Sherlock's shoulder. 

                Sherlock gave a disgruntled rumble and merely reasserted his grip around John, lost while asleep. He rode on the excuse of sleepy petulance to nuzzle into John's shoulder. He'd slept incredibly well – it was only now he was filled with a simmering sense of dread. John took him in happily and indulged in skimming a hand over his partner's bare, bony shoulder blades. 

                “You're still brooding over last night,” John said, more as a confirmation than as a real question. 

                Sherlock only sighed in response. John didn't immediately follow up the observation, as he could feel from the bit of tension in Sherlock's body that he was searching for something to say. 

                “I'm...trying to understand my hesitations,” Sherlock finally mumbled. 

                “Sherlock,” John started carefully. 

                “No, John, I'm not interested in waiting for that 'time heals all wounds' rubbish. I am a problem solver, and this is a problem.” 

                John didn't much like that description of it, like it meant there was currently something _wrong_ with Sherlock, but he let the thought go for now. 

                “Forcing the situation could cause even _more_ problems.” 

                “Only if I...force myself to act. Thinking about it is a different matter entirely.” 

                “Fair enough. Then the natural place to start is potential triggers, I suppose.” 

                “I'm not entirely sure what those would be,” Sherlock admitted. 

                “You don't? In comparison—“ 

                “You are assuming I have something to compare to,” Sherlock cut in, hollowly. 

                John went still and quiet, letting the significance of Sherlock's words sink in. Just as last night at the table, his chest tightened and his vision began to glass over, but he didn't give in to temptation this time and took a deep breath instead. 

                “I see,” he finally decided to say. 

                Sherlock pulled back a little so he could drop a soothing kiss to John's brow. John couldn't help but frown – _he_ was supposed to be comforting _Sherlock_ , not the other way round. 

                “Anyway, so now you understand my difficulty,” Sherlock said with a surprising amount of ease. 

                “Yeah,” John said, though it was more of a gasp than a word. He chewed the inside of his cheek in anxious consideration. 

                “Well, there was the incident that started all this. You didn't describe what I did to upset you in detail.” 

                “True. You...when you grabbed my wrist. So, that. And I suppose by extension,” Sherlock continued, though his voice grew increasingly strained as he spoke, “that I would never be inclined to...anything involving being pinned or tied down.” 

                John held Sherlock closer and nodded. He realised belatedly that talking about this would almost certainly require Sherlock turning over the events of the attack in his head, and in great detail. And with Sherlock's sheer power of recollection, the possibilities were upsetting, to say the least. 

                “M-maybe we should—“ 

                “No, it's fine, John. This conversation is necessary. And...if I have to think about it, this is probably the place and way I'd prefer to do so.” 

                “So you haven't deleted everything?” 

                “I have tried. That appears to be impossible,” Sherlock answered quietly, and John couldn't remember the last time he felt so stupidly naïve. He stroked at the hair around Sherlock's ear to soothe the both of them. 

                “Allow me a moment to recall.” 

                “You don't have to,” John countered in a rush. “We can just figure it out as we go.” 

                “I would vastly prefer doing it voluntarily than make another mistake, John.” 

                “...okay. D'you need me to leave?” 

                “No, remain here. Please.” 

                John did, but gave Sherlock a little more space. Sherlock rolled onto his back and took a deep breath in his customary method of accessing his mind palace. As expected, the memories were close at hand due to the previous conversation. John laid aside him uneasily, one hand over Sherlock's elbow. Minutes slipped by and Sherlock was still as stone, unlike yesterday. John surmised it was because he was experiencing a lot less stress overall. 

                Sherlock's eyes flew open without warning and he gasped, as if resurfacing after being underwater too long. John sat up instantly, hovering over Sherlock's field of vision, murmuring reassurances. 

                “Sherlock. Sherlock, I'm right here.” 

                Sherlock nodded and struggled up to a sitting position. He felt he could breathe a little better that way. John's hand seized one of his on the bed, and Sherlock took much more solace out of it than he would ever want to admit. He stared down the bedspread as he calmed down and reoriented himself. John didn't interrupt, but was obviously anxious. 

                “I haven't done that in a while. I always manage to forget how vivid it is,” Sherlock finally said, though a bit raspy. 

                “When was the last time?” John asked as he shuffled over to lean against the headboard with Sherlock. 

                “The last time I attempted a complete recollection? Not long after I first returned to London. I...thought I would handle it better, having come home. I was incorrect,” he finished before John could ask the obvious follow-up question. “But there was plenty to distract me, one way or another.” 

                John's stomach turned at the thought; Sherlock's relapse took on a new and entirely more disturbing appearance, now. 

                “Did you find anything?” he asked, eager to change the subject, though that wasn't altogether any less horrifying. He carded his hair in one aggressive swipe. 

                “Yes,” Sherlock replied easily enough, but didn't immediately continue. John saw Sherlock's hands beginning to fidget in his lap, so he put a comforting hand over them, and that seemed to help calm him. 

                “I would prefer,” Sherlock finally opened, “that you don't use any, er, pet names, at least in the context of sex. I'd rather not say which specifically, and I don't think it will matter anyway.” 

                John's expression pinched, but he nodded. 

                “As I specified before, don't...immobilise me, I suppose is the best way to put it. And I think at least to start, nothing should happen that has me facing away from you.” 

                “Okay. That makes sense,” John agreed, though he couldn't help the strain in his voice. 

                “And...don't pull my hair. It...” Sherlock's hand went up reflexively to smooth over the back of his skull. “I had to cut it all off after, and it took quite some time to heal.” Despite himself, he sat back and crossed his arms tight across his chest. “Absolutely no biting,” he finished quickly, and John's already crestfallen expression deteriorated further. “I think that's it.” 

                John had no idea how to respond, and couldn't quite get himself to move at first. Sherlock stared off towards the opposite wall. His eyes became progressively unfocused, and at last John rallied himself to pull his partner into a tight hug, if for no other reason than to keep Sherlock from drifting too far back into memory. It seemed to rouse him and he returned the embrace with more than his usual effort. 

                “Okay. I can do that. Thank you for telling me,” John rasped. 

                They pulled away, but John brought a hand up so he could thumb at Sherlock's temple. For the most part, Sherlock appeared unaffected, but John very much knew better than to trust his outward expression. John could feel him putting emotional distance from everything around him. 

                “I think I would like a shower,” Sherlock finally said, and John did his best not to read too far into the statement. 

                “Right.” 

                John decided to let him have his space. Sherlock was not one to double down on sentimentality even on his best day, so John figured that probably made for a good template overall. He sat back against the headboard so Sherlock could climb out of bed, but as he headed for the door, he paused. 

                “Come join me,” he said quietly.               

                From the tone of his voice, John could immediately tell it wasn't anything even approaching a come-on. It sounded a touch too plaintive for that. Not that it mattered to John in the least. He sprung out of bed perhaps a bit too quickly and followed him without comment. 

                Sherlock got the water started, looking a bit haggard. John came over to take his hand and, as the water warmed, gently tugged Sherlock into a little sway back and forth. It wasn't quite dancing – they only moved their feet just a bit in place, but John held his waist and hand in pantomime. A tiny smile broke on Sherlock's face – John's plan had been a success. Having completed his task, he released Sherlock and began pulling off his shirt and pyjama pants. Sherlock followed suit with his incredibly rumpled trousers and pants from yesterday, and together they slipped inside the tub. 

                Sherlock pulled in close as they began to soak. John could see his suspicion was correct – Sherlock just needed someone around to keep him from being alone with his thoughts, and that was just fine with him. 

                “How're you feeling?” John tried gently. 

                “Fine,” Sherlock answered a little too quickly. “I just didn't want to be bored.” 

                “You know you don't need pretences with me,” John reminded him as casually as he could muster. It earned a deep sigh, but a nod as well. 

                “I just...need to put a little distance from what I just did, even if only temporal. But it's already a little better, this time. The companionship helps considerably.” 

                “Happy to help,” John replied with a smirk, and Sherlock amicably rolled his eyes. However, John caught him in a long kiss and sobered a bit. “So what would you like to do now?” 

                Sherlock's shoulders tightened about his neck and he stared at his feet. 

                “I don't know. All I have is this pile of things I _can't_ do. And I don't even know if it's exhaustive, or have an idea if I _can_ at all. It's...frustrating,” he admitted. Nervous energy drove him to leave John's embrace and go for the shampoo – might as well follow through on the entire purpose of being in the shower in the first place. He scrubbed aggressively at his head to distract himself, but John's face pulled in a thoughtful frown. 

                “Well, I have a thought.” 

                “Go ahead, I'm open to suggestions. For once, I have none myself.” 

                “Maybe, for a first, we should...just focus on you,” John said as he scratched nervously at the back of his neck. He stepped aside to let Sherlock rinse and started on his own hair. 

                “I don't follow.” 

                Needing to spell it out made John blush. He was nearly forty, for heaven's sake, but any suggestion of sex in terms of Sherlock always shook him to his core. 

                “I mean...just you. Probably oral. After all, your first orgasm from a partner deserves to be quality.” 

                “Orgasms are orgasms, John. Not to besmirch your skill, but I fail to see how singular attention will be any more appreciable than doing it myself.” 

                John couldn't help but snicker a little. 

                “I think you'll change your mind on that if you try. And besides, that's part of the point – getting over that first obstacle with _any_ kind of sexual contact. Y'know what I mean?” 

                Sherlock let John go rinse his head as he considered against the wall. The logic was sound, if somewhat irritating to him. It was a handicap – Sherlock _loathed_ needing a handicap. It must have shown on his face, because as John finished cleaning his head of shampoo, he reached over to grasp Sherlock's upper arm. 

                “It isn't just for that, either. I... _want_ to. N-not that it's about me,” he quickly interjected, but Sherlock waved an impatient hand in understanding to get him to continue. “It...matters to me, being able to bring you, just you, to climax. I don't know how to say it that doesn't sound kind of stupid – I'm not very good at explaining this kind of thing. But I wanted that before you told me all this, and now I only feel the compulsion _more._ ” 

                Sherlock's face softened with uncharacteristic warmth and familiarity. 

                “I – well, both of us, but especially me – wasted a lot of time that could have been what we have now. And I guess I feel like I have to make up for it, maybe, and also simply because...because...” John struggled. 

                “You want me to feel pleasure,” Sherlock finished quietly. He snuck past John to shut off the water. “As a representation of your feelings, before you learnt all this. And now, also likely as a reflection of improving my self-image, or at least as you perceive it, considering what happened while I was away.” 

                He got out of the tub and reached for a towel to toss to John before starting in on himself. John remained where he was, soaking, stark-naked, and terrified he'd overstepped. 

                “I-I...” 

                Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek and stared at the floor again as he wrapped the towel around his waist. 

                “No, you're...quite correct, John,” he just managed to say. “Reluctant as I am to admit it.” 

                John nearly fell flat on his face rushing out to get to Sherlock, but he hesitated upon reaching his partner. He'd been _awfully_ huggy of late; perhaps it was too much. The sudden reluctance luckily only seemed to amuse Sherlock, as he gave him a sad little smile before turning to stare off at the sink. John changed tactics and took Sherlock's chin in hand so they held each other’s eyes.

                 “As ever, you can tell me what I think better than I can myself. Well then, do you want me to show you just how gorgeous you are?” 

                Sherlock turned a deep crimson and his eyes went wide. 

                “Okay,” he replied with a rasp.

 


	4. Chapter 4

                John gave Sherlock a warm smile and let his chin go. 

                “Good.” He finished drying himself off and cast aside his towel on the counter before holding out a hand for Sherlock to take. “You're perfectly dressed for the occasion.” 

                That only made Sherlock flush harder. He'd never been _seduced_ before, after all. At least in a way that actually _worked._ He took the offered hand and let John lead him back into the bedroom. Given being flustered already, Sherlock felt incredibly ungainly as he clambered onto the bed and settled himself against the headboard. John followed with a sinewy grace Sherlock had never seen from him before, that same easy smile stretched across his face. However, as he perched alongside his partner, John grew serious again. 

                “If something changes, and you want to stop—“ 

                “I know,” Sherlock hurried to reply, but John smoothed a hand over his bare knee. 

                “This is serious, Sherlock. I need a way to know you're feeling overwhelmed.” As much as John understood Sherlock might want to pretend he didn't need some accommodation, he knew it wasn't going to do any good in the long run that way. 

                “You're suggesting a safe word?” 

                “Yeah, I guess that works.” 

                Sherlock took a second to stare at the ceiling as he considered. A smile flickered across his face. 

                “Dartmoor, then.” 

                “...really?” John replied, intrigued. 

                “Yes. It was...something of a watershed moment for me, in regards to you. Feels appropriate to use now.” 

                That was a sobering thought. John sat back and crossed his legs. 

                “I see. Yeah, looking back...something could have happened then, if we'd let it.” 

                “Agreed. But I'm...rather glad it didn't. I can appreciate now how unprepared I would have been for...all of that, and considering the circumstances of my departure, it's better that we're here now.” 

                John shied a little, prompting Sherlock to fix him with a confused look. Obviously, Sherlock wasn't going to let him get away with silence, so John sighed. 

                “I don't know. If I could go back and have made myself sit down and be honest about it...maybe Mary wouldn't have happened, maybe I might have done better while you were gone. Because in that scenario, even without knowing you'd eventually turn out to be fine, I'd have been able to comfort myself with the fact that I’d had it, at least for a little while,” John murmured. 

                “You don't have to regret Mary, you know. You didn't do anything wrong,” Sherlock offered. 

                “No, I know. And I don't think I do, but only time will settle that in my mind for sure. I'm just saying, maybe it might have been easier. Not having at least tried with you, when I’d had so many opportunities...that was what made it hurt the most.” 

                Sherlock reached to pull John over. A strained expression wrinkled his face, somewhere between sympathy and self-blame. 

                “Sorry. Again.” 

                “Hush, we're way past that,” John reassured at a whisper before sealing it with a kiss. It quickly turned heated, driven as it was by the emotionally-fraught conversation. Sherlock's pressed his hand into the base of John's skull, urging him in as close as he could get. 

                “M'here, I'll always be,” Sherlock just managed to say between heavy breaths and deepening kisses. “Never again.” 

                Sentiment burned inside John and burned him to his core. He clumsily rearranged himself, straddling Sherlock so he could envelop him against the headboard more fully. However, Sherlock's hand stiffened a little after resting easily at John's hip, so John softened his approach almost immediately. They parted for a much-needed moment to catch their breath, but John stayed close. He started to dip down to begin down Sherlock's neck, only to stall when he remembered his usual approach of nibbling. He'd done it before, of course, with zero issue, but now...? 

                Sherlock got ahold of John's earlobe with gentle teeth, and despite the heady wave of arousal breaking over him, John managed to realise that it was meant to be an example. 

                “That wasn't what I meant by biting,” Sherlock murmured. “It's okay.” 

                Having been given an enthusiastic green light, John resumed what he was doing with gusto, opting for soft nips and grazing the edge of his bottom teeth. A gasp and shiver escaped Sherlock; John felt like he'd won the lottery. 

                “Shouldn't you be aiming a little lower?” Sherlock said, and John could feel him grinning from where he was, tongue swiping at Sherlock's pulse. 

                “Sex from a cold start isn't any fun. You need warming up.” 

                John slid back and took ahold of Sherlock's thighs. As he held his partner's eyes to give him time to react, he tugged Sherlock down the mattress so he'd be lying down completely. Sherlock's chest filled with a heavy warmth for all the effort John was putting in for his sake. Already he was anxious about how he was going to reciprocate, but John slid up and over him on all fours, petting his torso with the backs of his fingers in a way that gave Sherlock a thrill down his spine when they didn't go _quite_ low enough. 

                “All right? You're looking a little blank.” 

                Sherlock nodded. 

                “Just...you're very good at this. I'm at a bit of a loss as to what I should do f—“ 

                “Don't worry about me.” 

                “I'm quite certain I'll be sufficiently distracted in a few minutes, but after—“ 

                “Don't“ – John pressed a thumb against Sherlock's lips – “Worry. About. Me. That's for another day.” 

                Inwardly, John delighted in what he was seeing – a concerned, caring Sherlock, invested in sharing and showing appreciation. Quite a rare thing to see so earnestly, and just for John. As much as John endeavoured daily to get Sherlock to show even the slightest amount of decorum to the general public, he paradoxically wanted to keep this side of Sherlock secreted away for himself. Even if the rest of the world never understood, John would, and that was all that mattered to either of them. 

                Sherlock couldn't help but frown a little, but let the thought go with a little nip to the end of John's thumb. He spent every other second of his life demanding to be paid exclusive attention, after all; he might as well indulge where it was offered freely. John slipped away out of Sherlock's sightline to work his way down his chest. Hot little blossoms of sensation marked John's progress, eking little noises out of Sherlock that grew louder the lower John went. _Overwhelmed_ had been a surprisingly accurate descriptor from John, but Sherlock slid his fingers into John's hair to keep himself grounded, as well as keep the effect pleasant. He tried to ignore the nervous compulsion to raise his head and watch what John was doing. Every thrill had a dual edge Sherlock couldn't help but acknowledge, but the good far outweighed...anything else. John was definitely having no trouble getting him hard, after all. He bucked; John's slick and eager tongue had slunk its way down to tease Sherlock's thigh. John pulled back with a happy little growl, impressed by the response. 

                “I love how _sensitive_ you are. It's everything I could have hoped for and more.” 

                Sherlock didn't get a chance to reply before John laved at the head of his cock. He barely managed to school his hips from jerking wildly, and John pressed the advantage to start taking the shaft in his mouth. It had been an embarrassingly long time since he'd performed oral sex on a man – that having been in the Army, half a world away and a lifetime ago. As such, he had to really concentrate on what he was doing at first, but caught on easily enough again after a couple introductory bobs. 

                All of Sherlock's earlier anxiety, simmering just under his arousal, completely evaporated. To keep from bucking, his fingers grated at the back of John's skull, feet shifting and toes curling on the mattress. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he wanted to say actual words, but they all came out as aborted syllables that trailed off into bleated moans. Once John found his rhythm, he worked Sherlock with all the efficiency one would expect of him, but added moments of indulgence in circling over the tip with his tongue, or dragging his lower lip just a touch harder along the underside. That turned Sherlock's cries into choked gasps and made him shake. John could tell it wouldn't be long, and indeed it wasn't – with Sherlock being so inexperienced, he gave no warning and came as John was halfway through another pass down his shaft, catching him off-guard. He coughed, having only managed down a bit, prompting Sherlock to struggle up to lean on his elbows. 

                “Wh- oh,” Sherlock drawled, and immediately fell back onto the mattress from the orgasm-induced vertigo. John couldn't help but giggle at him as he wiped the remnants from under his lip. 

                “One second,” John said, and leapt out of bed to soak a flannel from the loo. “Guess I'm not _that_ good, made quite a mess,” he continued as he climbed back into bed to clean up. 

                Sherlock stopped him by slapping a lazy hand over his arm and tugged weakly at him. 

                “No. S'great.” 

                John flopped over to lay aside his blissed-out partner, making them bounce a bit in place. A wide, goofy smile split Sherlock's face. 

                “I bow in deference to your earlier assertion,” Sherlock all but slurred. “That was _much_ better than anything I've ever mustered for myself.” 

                That made John laugh. Sherlock huddled in close so he could peck appreciative kisses at will here and there on John's face. Orgasm had left him a bit more open than the usual – he fixed John with a delighted, almost sappy expression as he sat, just watching him as if he were performing some incredible feat. It faded as the high wore off, replaced with dodgy eyes and a shy smile. 

                 John carded Sherlock's hair. 

                “All bungling on my end aside, I'm glad you enjoyed yourself,” he offered humbly. 

                Sherlock stared down into the bedspread. “Thank you.” 

                “So polite, how uncharacteristic of you,” John cracked, but Sherlock drew up again, shaking his head. 

                “I'm quite serious. I...felt some apprehension at first, but it was overcome. I have tangible proof I can follow through, so to speak. All my pessimism for the past month was paranoia. I haven't allowed myself to have any confidence about it up until now, despite your reassurance yesterday.” 

                John sobered instantly. 

                “Apprehension?” 

                “Just a lingering...anxiety. You didn't do anything wrong at all, John. Entirely the opposite. I experienced sustained arousal, pleasure, all the way up to and including climax. That...means far more than I am able to articulate,” Sherlock finished quietly. John nuzzled in and let Sherlock have a place to burrow into the crook of his neck. 

                “You're rather clinical about it,” John said, both in observation and confusion. 

                “It...feels appropriately distanced from me that way. But now...perhaps that can change.” 

                John held him tighter, inwardly chastising himself for being flippant. It had seemed so easy, he'd let himself get a little complacent. 

                “Right. This will work, Sherlock. Whatever that means in detail, it's okay.” 

                For the first time, Sherlock felt himself believe it. 

                “I always am, 'course, but I'm...really proud of you for this. Even just trying is a big deal.” 

                “It isn't for others. It shouldn't be for me,” Sherlock mumbled as a weak rebuttal, but his heart stuttered in his chest for the praise. 

                John raked over the top of Sherlock's head again with his fingers and left an impassioned kiss on his forehead. 

                “You're an exceptional human being, Sherlock. I couldn't give a shit what the rest of the world expects of you.” 

                Sherlock caught one of John's hands in a tight fist, and gave a shaky sigh into the skin in the hollow of his partner's neck. They lay together for a long while, tangled up in each other. It was hardly a waste of a day after such an accomplishment. 

~ 

                In the immediate days after their first coupling, that was it for intimacy. Sherlock seemed to be experiencing a mild, reactionary freak-out the day after, but John decided not to talk him through it and just let his presence speak for itself – _nothing has changed that you didn't want to, see?_ He stayed close but not too much so; he'd give silent, brief touches just as reminders as he passed. Sure enough, by the next day Sherlock was much more at ease with himself and his surroundings. Come the following Tuesday, Sherlock came over to sit next to John as he was fiddling with the blog on his laptop. 

                “Thank you,” he opened softly. 

                John was so absorbed in his work and the sudden sentiment, it took him a moment to realise what Sherlock was talking about. 

                “Oh. 'Course,” he replied warmly. 

                “I didn't mean to withdraw like that, and I should have communicated myself more effectively,” Sherlock said, but John stalled him with a hand over his wrist. The fact that Sherlock was trying so earnestly to prove he'd learned from his mistake in pulling away from John made him almost giddy. 

                “You don't have to _tell_ me every little thing. I'm no consulting detective, but I'm good enough to deduce a thing or two out of you now,” John replied, teasing just a little. “You told me the important part that was causing an issue. If I had reason to think it changed somehow, I'd have asked. You needed space, I could tell. I don't mind.” 

                Sherlock nodded and worried his lower lip. 

                “Your skill in navigating interpersonal cues is something I've always envied.” 

                “You can always ask, y'know. If you don't understand if I'm angry, or confused by you. Or whatever you think I may or may not be feeling. You _can_ do that. It isn't cheating.” 

                Sherlock frowned in surprise – the thought truly had never occurred to him. It made John smile fondly and lean into Sherlock. In return, Sherlock perched his head on the top of John's for a bit, nuzzling his nose into his hair as he stewed on the idea. 

                “You are...so amused by my arbitrary weaknesses,” Sherlock eventually muttered. 

                John pulled away so he could see Sherlock properly. 

                “Is it condescending? I don't mean it to be.” 

                “No, just...I don't understand why. I never have. Everyone else finds it irritating.” 

                Not surprising. John frowned thoughtfully as he considered. 

                “Well, a year ago I'd never have admitted this out loud, but frankly...it's cute.” 

                Sherlock instantly appeared scandalised, but it only made John laugh. 

                “It is! I mean, you _are_ an arsehole sometimes, but a lot of the time you just...didn't ever really think about the emotional aspect of something. And it's not like you don't know it exists – you note emotional stuff _all the_ _time_ during cases. You just forgot about it for yourself, like a pair of glasses on your head. Despite everything about your powers of observation and intelligence, it never occurred to you that you could just ask. That's adorable. And so is your reaction to my saying so. I mean, you're pouting. It's ridiculous.” 

                Sherlock balked and tried to rearrange his face into a different expression just to spite John, but to no avail, and John only laughed harder. He fell back further into Sherlock to the point he had to hold John up a bit with an arm. When his giggling subsided, he let his arm slide over Sherlock's around his waist. 

                “I won't tell anyone you're adorable, promise,” John reassured.               

                Though he only gave a low hum as an acknowledgment, Sherlock studied John's face with rapt attention. It was flushed from laughing, the tip of his nose just the right shade of pink, and the character lines in his face a touch deeper for his smile. John was always lovely to Sherlock, of course, but at the moment he was truly stunning. He took initiative and kissed, clearly taking John a little by surprise. Sherlock didn't linger long, but as soon as he pulled away, he scooped up John's laptop and deposited it on the coffee table to get it out of the way. Before he could let himself have second thoughts, he straddling John on the sofa and began nudging his fingertips inside the collar of John's shirt to unbutton it. 

                “Mm, okay,” John said lightly. “Dunno what prompted this, but I won't argue.” 

                However, as John reached up to mirror the unbuttoning, Sherlock stopped him and shook his head. John's hands went a little stiff with worry in Sherlock's. 

                “It's...fine,” Sherlock began quietly, and dropped a quick kiss to one of the hands on him. “I simply...would rather not be distracted. I don't quite have a grasp on what I'm doing.” A shy smile briefly rose and fell on his face before being replaced by a tiny frown of embarrassment. “But...you look...especially, er, nice today and I feel compelled to show appreciation.” 

                John's worry bled away, and he grinned. Yet another example of Sherlock being adorable; John didn't voice it, however, too worried it would put Sherlock off even more. 

                “Very well. You're a clever man; a try or two and I'm sure you'll have me outstripped in skill.” 

                That got a stress-relieving chuckle out of Sherlock, at least. He returned to unbuttoning and concentrated on just the first step – unclothing – so he didn't start overthinking anything. That lasted all of twenty-three seconds before he was left with nervous fingers fiddling at the lapel of John's shirt. 

                “I think...I'll opt just to use my hands this time.” 

                “Hands are good. Yours are, in fact, _great_ ,” John replied easily. “I've had a thought or two about those long fingers you've got.” 

                Sherlock reddened to the ears, but overall, John's reassurance did make him feel better. John gave him a brief peck on the tip of his nose. 

                “There's no wrong way to do what you want to do, Sherlock, I promise you. You could read your damned blog aloud to me and I'd get off.” 

                “You and your fascination with exaggeration,” Sherlock said, aiming for mock-grumpiness and ending up warm and familiar. Still, it emboldened him again, and he returned to shedding John of his button-up. As usual, John was in a white tee underneath, so as Sherlock began rolling the hem up, John's abs fluttered and fled at the delicate touch. Sherlock got it up to his chest and let John finish the rest. His wrist snapped, launching it off across the room, the whole time keeping his eyes trained on Sherlock's. Another kiss loosened Sherlock's tension further, and he started in on the jeans. 

                “Tell me what you think,” John said, hot in Sherlock's ear. 

                “Well-formed musculature left over from your military service, maintained sparingly but still appreciable. I'm especially fond of the way the platysma and sternocl—“ 

                John's hands smoothed through Sherlock's hair to get his attention. They shared a look. 

                “That...isn't particularly enticing, is it?” 

                John grinned and shrugged. 

                “Generally, describing your sexual partners like they're an autopsy isn't, no.” 

                Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek, but John draped his arms on Sherlock's shoulders and played with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

                “But lucky you, having a boyfriend who knows his anatomy. So you like my neck, hm?” 

                Even as his anxiety crested, John knew exactly how to redirect it to wash back out again. And the word _boyfriend_ was extra-helpful. Sherlock hummed his agreement. 

                “I do. But my favourite are your obliques,” Sherlock explained, and pressed a hand into the right side. “Something in the way you twist your hips and torso. I could watch all day.” 

                John whole-body shivered, and Sherlock watched his pupils swell. Success, then. He finished with the zip and freed his partner's cock. 

                “Not yet,” John murmured. “More. I won't last very long once you start pulling me off, I guarantee it.” 

                “Uh, right.” 

                He settled on kissing to start; he'd grown quite good at that. Soon after, he let his interest wander downward and take an experimental nip at an areola. John's arms, encasing his head, twitched and he gave a weighted moan. Like the first night he'd told John everything, his moan threatened Sherlock's confidence and broke his concentration. He didn't understand why; John's enthusiastic reaction seemed to make it too real, the consequences of perceived failure too high, which was of course logically ridiculous. To help himself, he recalled Sunday morning – he'd done it once, he could do it again. 

                John could sense Sherlock's moment of hesitation, but before he could offer a retreat, Sherlock redoubled his effort. First one nipple, then the other, before working his way back up to the neck, and John whimpering nearly every moment of it. 

                “Just under my jaw, right at the c- _fuck_ , _Sherlock,_ ” he bleated when Sherlock immediately answered the request with aggressive sucking. He needed to grip Sherlock's shoulder blades to keep from touching himself. As well, Sherlock recognised John's need, as his hand carefully circled his shaft, thumb pointing up towards the head. Much like how John had sucked him off, Sherlock mimicked circling the head on upstrokes. His pace was a little slow, but that was understandable to keep it manageable amidst all the multi-tasking.               

                “A little tighter – _perfect_. Those fucking hands, Jesus Ch—“John's encouragements cut off in an outright cry when Sherlock pressed a tentative thumb up into the slit. Within seconds, he came all over his torso, probably ruining his jeans, but it was more than worth it. 

                “Good lord, you weren't kidding,” Sherlock said, unbothered by the mess. 

                “That's what you fucking do to me,” John replied before pulling him in for a fierce kiss. “You did it.” 

                “I almost didn't. Causing those kinds of noises is unexpectedly intimidating.” 

                “I could tell. But you did. And if you enjoyed yourself, you can do that again _anytime_.” 

                Now that it was over, Sherlock could really _feel_ his self-satisfaction. John was bright-eyed, flush, and still panting a little, all because of _him_. Because another human being _wanted_ him, and took him on his own terms. Power unexpectedly flooded his chest for the realisation. He had control, he had options he was comfortable with, and that made all the difference in the world. A proud smile crept onto his face. It was working – _he_ was working. A relative sliver of success, but it was his where he thought there would never be _any_ , and he could see now it would continue to grow. 

                “Yes. Yes, I did.” 

                John returned the smile and embraced him. 

~ 

                One very pleasant week of oral sex and mutual masturbation later, the two of them were unevenly climbing the stairs upon arriving home, stopping every other stair for another hot, biting kiss. There didn't seem to have been any reason; a single kiss in the cab had simply spiralled out of control and left the cabbie with an extra 30 quid in a tip and _very_ uncomfortable. That was hardly on either man's mind anymore, however. 

                “Up,” Sherlock said, tugging on the lapels of John's black jacket. Snogging was all well and good, but hardly the main event at this point. 

                John's eyes lit up and he stomped on past, now dragging Sherlock by the cuff of his Belstaff. Coats were dumped on the floor, shoes sent thudding into the window overlooking the street. They were hardly more than a few centimetres from each other the entire rush back to their bedroom, and grinned at each other as they wholeheartedly flopped onto the bed. Sherlock landed on his back, John hovering over him; he delighted in John diving in to mark up his neck with a heavy bruise of a kiss. Sherlock let his head fall back and shut his eyes in appreciation. 

                All at once, John opted to roll them, as well as put enthusiastic effort into wedging a hand down Sherlock's trousers. The unexpected shift in gravity turned everything in Sherlock's gut to ice and caused his back to go rigid. His palm slammed down into John's chest to separate them, and all the air in Sherlock's lungs seemed to leave him in a vacuum. John took the hit with a heavy _oof_ , it having been so fast and involuntary. 

                “Easy...Sherlock?” 

                Sherlock's eyes were glassy and staring into the middle distance, and as his hand tightened into a fist in John's shirt, John filled with dread. Instinctual triage mode made John put his hands up to either side of his head on the mattress, palms open. For now, he didn't dare touch his partner. 

                “Sherlock,” he repeated, but voice steady and warm this time, “Sherlock, it's me, it's John. You're having a flashback.” 

                Sherlock's hand stayed exactly where it was, pushing harder into John's chest, and started to shake. He was also quietly hyperventilating. The pet name _love_ sat right on the tip of John's tongue, eager to express familiarity, but he reined himself in just in time. 

                “It isn't real, Sherlock. We're home, remember? You're home, you're safe with me. Look, over on your right, there's our dresser. What's on top of it?” he tried. 

                With obvious reluctance, Sherlock's turned as suggested. 

                “Picture of me and Mycroft. Th-the mug you left...yesterday.” 

                “Exactly. And on your left?” 

                “Periodic table.” 

                Sherlock started to loosen his grip, but his shaking was getting worse. 

                “Right again. Home, just like I said. I'm going to take your hand, okay?” 

                John got a numb nod in response, so he smoothed a very careful hand over Sherlock's on his chest. 

                “Take a deep breath for me, okay?” 

                The first one looked like a struggle and sounded rather wheezy, but Sherlock's cleverness was catching on to the process despite the disassociation, and he kept trying. 

                “Keep looking ‘round. Take your time, come back.” 

                Second by agonising second, Sherlock did, John murmuring encouragements to him all the while. His eyes slowly came back into focus and really began to see the room around him. When at last he came back to himself, he collapsed onto John's chest and took in a huge, shuddering gasp. 

                “S'okay, I'm here.” John coughed, being a little winded from the body weight. For the sake of caution, he kept Sherlock in a loose hug until he felt more confident the whole episode wasn't going to repeat itself. 

                Sherlock didn't speak, but buried his face in John's hair at the side of his head, continuously shaking from the comedown. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

                “I don't understand.” 

                They'd been lying there quite a while, waiting for Sherlock to calm down sufficiently, when he finally spoke. He remained hidden in the space between John's neck and the mattress. John turned and kissed his temple. 

                “What d'you mean?” 

                “You didn't do anything wrong. None of the things I told you not to do happened, and still...” Sherlock's voice grew tight with his frustration, but the sorrow weighing it down was what made John feel truly awful. 

                “I think perhaps this time, it all happened a little too fast, that's all.” 

                Sherlock _did not_ like that answer; he tensed and his fists balled up. 

                “What am I supposed to do? Make you wear flashing lights and shout your intentions before you touch me?” he replied, not quite yelling but certainly louder than needed, considering they were so close. “You know me. It's bad enough I can't be _perfect_ , but I can't even be fucking _normal_ about this.” 

                John didn't know what to say, and even if he had, the emotion flooding his chest seemed to replace the air in his lungs so he wouldn't have been able to speak it. Sherlock, perched on the edge of a downward spiral already, took it as tacit agreement and pitched himself wholeheartedly into his inner emotional maelstrom. 

                “I am. I am broken. It'll never be fixed; it's always just going to be _safe_ and _planned_ and fucking _careful_. It's just a fucking plaster over it all.” 

                Sherlock began to slide away as if to get off the bed, but John rallied himself and got an arm across his partner's shoulders to halt him. 

                “No, please, Sherlock. It isn't going to be like this forever, I promise you.” 

                “You _can't_ promise that, don't fucking try.”

                 “Okay, fine! I can't! But I'm going to do everything I have to try and make it happen, Sherlock. It's the least I can do, and I _want_ to. You got hurt, I wasn't there to protect you, I didn't know, and you've been left to deal with it on your own for _three years_ after the fact, because for _two_ of those years I was too distracted by my own bullshit to see what was wrong. But I'm here now and ready to spend the rest of my life doing whatever's necessary for you to get better because _I love you_. And _that_ is something I can promise you.” 

                Sherlock was on his side, facing away as part of his half-hearted plan to abandon the bed. When John finished speaking, Sherlock ducked down and he covered his face with a hand. A sharp little gasp escaped him that made his whole body jolt, and he relaxed back into the bed. John took the opportunity and gathered him up again, Sherlock's face to his chest. Speaking all his sentiment had put John on very shaky emotional ground himself, so his hand shook a little as he carded Sherlock's hair. 

                “I hate this,” Sherlock murmured. His voice had begun to crack. “I hate it so much. I know, I _know_ you would never...” 

                “Yes, I know. I don't take it personally, I swear.” 

                “It's not you, it's...it's me. You're trying your utmost, and I still...still associate all of it with you despite everything you do. That's my fault,” Sherlock explained. He felt as though he was simultaneously drowning and dissolving, completely unable to cope any longer. “S'all my fault.” 

                He'd begun trembling again just trying to explain his perspective, and by the time he managed to finish, heaving dry sobs broke his words apart. The descent had been so rapid and so intense, John went blank with shock for a few moments – Sherlock had never cried in front of him before, or at least not like this. The train episode had been a put-on, and even if it hadn't been, it would have been nothing compared to the distraught display he was holding at the moment. 

                “Oh my god,” John couldn't help but murmur as he tightened his hold around Sherlock. “No; no, no, no _Christ no,_ that isn't your fault.” 

                But of course Sherlock would think that; _why can't I just make it stop with logic? If I can't do that anymore, something must be wrong with me._ It added a touch of almost childlike simplicity to the whole tragedy John couldn't handle, and he began to cry as well, though he was far calmer about it than the full-on wracking sobs from Sherlock. They were still messily half-dressed from just minutes before, but it hardly mattered anymore. 

                “Please, _please_ believe me when I tell you it isn't your fault. You're brilliant and wonderful and beautiful and I don't blame you for _anything_.” 

                Sherlock only cried harder. If he had any kind of rebuttal, it was impossible for him to articulate it. John framed Sherlock's jaw with his hand and thumbed aside tear tracks as Sherlock made them. 

                “I don't know what it feels like, but I know it's hard. You've done really well and gotten so, so far. You don't have to do it by yourself anymore. I'll take care of you when you need it, and you'll take care of the rest because you're Sherlock fucking Holmes and you're the bravest and wisest and kindest man _I've_ ever known.” 

                Sherlock continued unabated for another ten minutes, and John didn't even try to stop him. He just stayed where he was, petting at the nape of Sherlock's neck as he held him. When the last little huffs of breath finally eased up and evened out, John finally spoke. 

                “When was the last time you let yourself do that?” 

                Sherlock's head shook against John's neck. 

                “I never have. Well, I mean...as far as my attack is considered. There were more important things to worry about. And...” Sherlock said, but drifted off. 

                “You think it's weak.” 

                Sherlock didn't respond, but he felt his eyes well up again. Truly infuriating. 

                “I already told you, you're the toughest person I know. It isn't a terrible reflection on you to be upset. Giving up on pretending to be okay is the first step towards _actually_ being okay,” John continued. 

                “Psychological drivel,” Sherlock replied with more heat than he intended. John didn't seem to mind, thank goodness. Rather than openly apologise, Sherlock kissed John's jaw. “You said you'd take care of me,” he said after a long pause. “That you're willing to do anything to help me.” 

                “Mmhmm.” 

                “You're...doing a good job so far,” Sherlock said, voice thick. “I don't think I've gotten nearly as far as you've suggested, but I appreciate the encouragement. I feel...trapped.” 

                “You've only been at this about a week, Sherlock. Don't set yourself up for failure with overzealous expectations. I know what you said before; you want to be normal, if you can't be perfect. I can't give you either of those things, but I _can_ remind you the box isn't nearly as small as you think it is.” 

                And _Jesus Christ,_ Sherlock wanted to believe him, but such an easily-spoken reassurance didn't help the suffocating feeling very much right now. 

                “Ten years from now, I could still have flashbacks.” 

                “And ten years from now I will still be here, and I'll remind you how much further you'll have gotten by then. If I could take it away, I would, I swear to god I would. But I can only give you what I have, and that is me. You can use me however to get what you need, so you remember how brilliant you are and get on your feet again. That, god help me, is all I can do, but I'll do it as much as needed as long as needed until the day I die. You _can_ do it; I believe that beyond any shadow of doubt.”               

                “I don't have to do it by myself anymore,” Sherlock said, repeating John's words from earlier. He'd certainly heard it the first time, but now that at least some of the self-doubt had been dealt with, the sentiment was starting to sink in better. The natural instinct Sherlock usually felt to buck _assistance_ didn't surface – that was actually rather reassuring. But then, he was pretty tired of the entire facade, and John was beyond trustworthy with any and all sentimentality. 

                “Exactly. Does that help?” John asked, honestly afraid of the answer. 

                Sherlock rose up and pressed John into the mattress for a long, desperate kiss. As they pulled apart, Sherlock nodded as he covered his mouth with a hand, overwhelmed once more. Even though he was still afraid of everything hiding in his subconscious waiting for the slightest vulnerability, Sherlock could imagine John's proverbial hand holding his inside his psyche, leading him where Sherlock lost his way. Just that single tether washed so much of the anxiety away. What remained – and perhaps might _always_ remain – could be conquered. John shushed at him and pet his temples while he struggled not to break into outright sobs again. Little hitching breaths broke up his words as he spoke again. 

                “Christ, now I...I let go....there's so much. So much, John.” 

                “It's all right. You just kept it all boxed up for a long time. You don't have to go over every little bit now.” 

                “Right. But I-I've been thinking since this all started, what...what I want you to know. And I d-don't want you to know what happened. I'll tell you what I want going forward, what I...I feel...but not what h-happened.” 

                “Okay,” John replied, his voice a bit higher than usual for trying to control his emotions. “The only problem I foresee with that is your medical file. D'you want Mycroft—“ 

                “No, no, I explained some injuries already and...summarised. That isn't...it doesn't...it isn't the same thing. Is that all right?” 

                “Yes, god, yes.” 

                Getting that off his chest helped considerably. The heaviness began to ease so he could at least breathe better. He stared down at John, committing every last detail in his earnest gaze to memory. John all but _bled_ empathy; if a look could remove all negative recollection from a soul, his would be it. Sherlock leant dangerously on an edge, bursting with sentiment, and yet still _not quite there_ to speaking it. John saw it, too, and returned an understanding smile. This wasn't _it_ \-- despite the openness and appreciation and promises, tonight was marred by the flashback, and it wasn't right. It wasn't _perfect,_ and John knew that.               

                “We've had a really long day,” he finally said, giving Sherlock permission to let it go. 

                Sherlock slumped gratefully back onto John's chest. After running around the city all day and now...this, exhaustion was looming. 

                “Yes.” 

                At last, they finished undressing and slid under the blankets. They lingered for a bit, brushing away the dredges of the stress and sorrow with grateful caresses and aimless kisses before drifting to sleep, wrapped up in each other. 

~ 

                They took it easy for the next couple days. It was an unspoken and almost completely unacknowledged agreement, but for Sherlock's bit of skittishness. It was yet another handicap, taking a break from any intimacy beyond all but the most prudish of affection, but Sherlock found himself chafing under it less than he had been at the outset of the whole thing. The perspective had changed; John was _helping_ , and sometimes helping meant doing nothing at all. It took pressure off the need to perform. 

                So, John was a little surprised as he woke one morning to Sherlock alongside him in bed, pinning him with an intense stare. He blinked his confusion and frowned. 

                “Morning,” he offered, voice still sleep-rough. 

                “I think I'm ready,” Sherlock said. 

                John's jaw dropped open to respond, but he had no idea how to. He was lost. A few beats passed with him just lying there, mouth open and eyes narrowed with deepening confusion. It was way too early for whatever this was. Sherlock's mouth bent in a brief smirk and he tried again. 

                “Sorry. I've been thinking, and I feel I'm prepared to return to intimacy. Furthermore, I want to go ahead and attempt penetrative sex.” 

                Yes, it was _definitely_ way too early for this. 

                “Okay...okay, hold on. Let me achieve full consciousness first,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, intimacy: great. Wonderful. But I—“ 

                “Question the wisdom of jumping right into penetrative sex, yes, I imagined you'd say that. You're feeling conservative because of the triggering episode.” 

                “Well, yes. And that's certainly out of concern for you, but it's for _me_ , too.” 

                “How do you mean?” 

                John grew evasive, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

                “Triggering you was terrible, Sherlock. I _still_ feel terrible remembering it; it will probably end up ranking as one of the top five worst feelings I've had in my _life_. Not to mention the fact I've done it _twice_ now. And I know it's not necessarily my fault, I do, but...I don't want to do it again, and this feels like too big of a chance it will. At least, not without some...prefacing sex. If for no other reason than to make me feel better, I'll admit that.” 

                “You didn't do anything wrong, John. If you don't blame me for being triggered, I'm not going to blame you for just being there when it happened.” 

                “I had more to do with it than that.” 

                “Yes and no. It truly was random and therefore nothing that could have been prepared for. That's not worthy of blame, from me _or_ at yourself. Everything you told me was correct, John – don't forget to apply it to yourself.” 

                John didn't answer right away, but Sherlock saw his eyes narrow in concentration before he ultimately nodded. 

                “You're right. Yeah, you are. And you're not...not an invalid about this, I'm not trying to—“ 

                “I understand that, John. It's okay. Listen, it's...” Sherlock frowned and nibbled his lower lip as he tried to find a good explanation for his perspective. “It's _important_ to me I do this. Even if I only ever do it once and decide I don't like it. But I'm not _forcing_ myself – I simply don't want to wait and belabour it because...I might balk if I wait too long and put too much pressure on myself without meaning to.” 

                “Important to you?” John asked. 

                “Yes. It...I need...I _need_ to know I can. I _need_ to know it...it isn't like...” 

                He covered his face with a hand, deeply embarrassed, but fortunately John grasped his point so he didn't have to continue elaborating. John reached out and held Sherlock's wrist. 

                “Okay. I understand, now.” 

                “Thank you,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. He pulled away his hand, but his face was still a little red. “Of course I don't want it to be perfunctory, either.” 

                “Of course. We treat it like any other sex we have – that's part of not belabouring it.” 

                “Exactly.” Sherlock tilted his head and gave John a warm, familiar smile. “I'll never be able to articulate how much I appreciate this. I know you feel like you've made mistakes, but truly, you've done nothing but good.” 

                John pulled Sherlock over so he could hold him properly, and began stroking at his curls. 

                “I'm just trying to do what's right for you,” he mumbled self-consciously. 

                They lingered in bed, taking their time enjoying each other. Sherlock put extra effort into his affections for his gratitude. It was innocent to start – just an easy re-acquaintance with touches and kisses. Eventually, Sherlock let John know he was serious by sliding his palm down John's torso and ultimately squeezing at the inside of his thigh. John let out a delighted little hum and rolled to pull Sherlock on top of him. However, Sherlock stayed his ground and tugged John to lay over him instead. He hadn't often allowed for John to pin him like this; now, it was a comfort. It was stalling, though, and he couldn't help but hate himself a little for it after talking about how ready he was. 

                John sensed the hesitation and this time, instead of backing off, he slowly wound his arm around Sherlock's head and dipped his head down towards his neck. He took his time, giving Sherlock plenty of opportunity to decline, but upon no such order he began kneading Sherlock's neck with gentle teeth. Sherlock seemed to go boneless underneath him and leant his neck into each new deliberate spread of John's mouth over the skin. Slow as he went, it was nonetheless intense – they couldn't quite be called bites, as John was mindful of Sherlock's triggers, but every kiss dug deep into his partner by micrometers, only letting up right at the border where it would become even the slightest pain. To Sherlock, it was a slow unraveling of his tension and worry, driving him further into a pleasant buzz of blissful lack of awareness. When John got up into the joint of his jaw and neck, Sherlock gave a desperate little murmur and scratched at John's shoulders. 

                “You know, you always know,” Sherlock murmured with something approaching awe. He caught John’s eyes so he could dive into his mouth again, desperate to show his appreciation. Both of them could feel the difference already in this coupling -- not that the sex they’d had up until now had been cheap or lacking in passion – but the consequence of the event settled comfortably on both their shoulders. “You’re incredible.” 

                John couldn’t help but let it go to his head a little, and responded with a cheeky growl.   

                “I take quite a bit of pride in knowing I’m the only one who can do this to you.” 

                Time to start upping the ante, John decided. He pushed Sherlock just a touch more by rutting into him; Sherlock’s breathless gasp was ambiguous enough that John almost stopped, but Sherlock responded in enthusiastic kind. He hitched up one of Sherlock’s thighs so he could pull Sherlock up a little bit as well, and that _really_ got Sherlock going. Sherlock scraped his heel along John’s back wildly, trying to find purchase, eventually resting at the small of his back. All the while, their mouths were barely separated, even for the scant moments they took to breathe between kisses. 

                “God, _please_ ,” Sherlock eventually whined. 

                That was a hell of a cue, especially with the thready, high-pitched noises that occasionally eked from Sherlock. John had to give his head a little shake to refocus. He left Sherlock with a last hurried peck before clambering over to the night table on his side of the bed. When they’d first gotten together, John had been…a little _too_ enthusiastic and invested in more than one kind of lube and a healthy quantity of condoms in anticipation. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sherlock he didn’t have a timetable, but nobody could blame him for getting a bit overexcited initially. And despite how the reality turned out, John hadn’t felt so much as a flicker of disappointment. 

                Sherlock was already fidgeting from a lack of attention in the seconds it took John to return to his side with all the requisite materials. He pouted down his body at John, through the fringe tastefully ruffled over his eyes. 

                “I _said_ please. You could hurry up,” Sherlock huffed, though a knowing little smirk split his face.

                “You spoiled little shit,” John replied with a low, heady chuckle that made Sherlock’s gut swoop heavily. John swept aside Sherlock’s messy fringe to get a better look at him. 

                “I’m _your_ spoiled little shit, though,” Sherlock said, tone equal measures warm with familiarity and aroused. 

                 John paused long enough to be forehead to forehead with Sherlock, and smiled. 

                “That you are.” 

                Moment had, John returned his attention to the lube and began coating up his first two fingers. This wasn’t something he’d done before, and on top of everything else, he wanted to be extra-mindful, medically-trained or not. Belatedly, he realized his chosen position wasn’t exactly the best and opted to shuffle up to sit against the headboard. He waved for Sherlock to get in his lap. 

                “Ambitious,” Sherlock said. 

                “From behind is a non-starter, and on your back puts you further away from me than I want.” 

                Sherlock slunk into position with only a tiny trace of hesitation in his expression. John brushed his lips across Sherlock’s cheekbone for a bit of grounding contact. 

                “M’right here. I can see you, I can feel everything. I’ll know.”               

                Sherlock relaxed into John’s body, but still he didn’t begin. It took Sherlock a moment to realise why, and when he did, John could feel Sherlock’s face heat with a blush against his neck. Sherlock took a moment to give silent gratitude to whatever possible omnipotent force might exist in the universe for this gift of a man wrapped around him. 

                “Yes. Yes, go ahead, John.”


	6. Chapter 6

               That was all John needed. His slicked hand threaded in between both their laps and up under Sherlock. He was determined to make it a good, slow burn, however, so he started with just a firm tracing over Sherlock’s arsehole. Like everywhere else, Sherlock was sensitive, and he reacted immediately with a full-body jolt. He threaded his arms around John’s neck more to bring their faces closer together, his lower lip dragging along the joint of John’s jaw. John let Sherlock drape his head and neck over his shoulder, so John’s throat was conveniently flush with his skin. Rather than speak as he worked, John made quiet, rumbling noises Sherlock could feel reverberate through him. Every time he did it, Sherlock would fidget, doing his damnedest to get closer to John for even a little more of the sensation. 

                John started working the tips of his fingers in. Sherlock had anticipated some kind of tension or pain, and it was definitely there, but grouped with everything else going on – his dizzy pulse, full-body flush, the impossibly heavy throb of his cock in John’s lap – it was manageable. That was one goal passed in his mind; the potential for pain had been an unspoken worry as a trigger for him. Relief washed over his already strained sensibilities, making him give a stuttering, loud gasp. John ate it up with delight and capitalized on the effect to work deeper inside. It took his breath away when Sherlock pushed a little into it, and spread his thighs wider in John’s lap for his eagerness. 

                “Jesus fucking Christ,” John muttered. He’d been around in his life, had his share of attractive partners, but Sherlock well and truly took the cake. Already there was a touch of damp at the nape of his curls, his shoulders, the small of his back. That, including his unexpectedly substantial thighs shivering with tension, made for a potent cascade adding to John’s thirst. “Try to stay still for me, okay?” he asked. 

                Before Sherlock could even process the suggestion, much less answer it, John demonstrated the need by sliding slowly and carefully up, down, a little to the left, then... 

                Sherlock groaned up at the ceiling as John pressed _in_. Short of doing a speedball back when he’d used drugs, he’d never felt anything so intense and _good_. John followed up his success with another, gentler caress, making Sherlock give another pitched cry. The sensation wracked Sherlock’s body, and more than anything he wanted to buck, roll his hips, _anything_. However, John shushed and nibbled gently at his neck, trying to bring him back down again. It took concentration just to breathe, and Sherlock’s eyes were screwed shut for the sheer amount of… _everything_ he was dealing with. 

                _Stop. Breathe. You have plenty of—_  

                John shifted inside – possibly a simple adjustment, maybe it’d been intended. All that mattered was it hit _just so_ , and Sherlock came in one forceful burst before he could think. Realisation flooded in with the retreat of climax’s tide, and Sherlock didn’t even let himself enjoy a second of it before his drove his damp forehead into John’s shoulder in dismay.               

                “Fuck… _fuck!_ ” 

                “Not the good kind, I take it?” John asked lightly as he reached to the nightstand for tissues to clean himself up at least a little, but Sherlock stiffened in his arms, making him realise it was more serious than he thought. “What?” he tried again, much more gently. 

                “I came,” Sherlock replied, though it was muffled by John’s skin. 

                “Well…yes, and quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself.” 

                “ _No_ , I mean prematurely. You barely did anything. God _damn it._ ”               

                “Yeah, yeah that—“ 

                “Sexual assault survivors tend to have higher rates of sexual dysfunction, including but nowhere near limited to—“ 

                Ahh, so _that_ was it. John nudged Sherlock up to look at him. 

                “Whoa, _whoa_ , Sherlock. Popping one off before you meant to _once_ is indicative of _nothing_. It happens when you’re forty just as much as when you’re fifteen. You were wound up, and as much as we said this isn’t a big deal, it’s still gonna feel like it, so you were extra amped up, and the new intensity with your nerves brought you to climax faster. You haven’t had an issue up until now, remember?” 

                Sherlock raked his curls and, though he was looking in John’s direction, it was more _through_ him than _at_ him. 

                “Haven’t I? We’ve deliberately taken a gentle route, minimising sensation so as not to overwhelm me, and maybe now we’re going for the full experience, I—“ 

                John calmly put a firm thumb to Sherlock’s lips, and his nervous rambling fell silent. 

                “First: this wasn’t the ‘full’ experience, just new. We’ve been having sex for two weeks. Period.  Just because it wasn’t penetrative doesn’t mean it was something less. Second, I reiterate: one time isn’t a pattern. And finally: even if it turns out it _is_ , it’s treatable. There’s plenty we can do about it to help stamina, or ease oversensitivity. But I doubt that’s the case; I think it would have been more apparent by now if it was anything more than nerves. You’re okay. It happened, it doesn’t _mean_ anything. Well, besides maybe that I didn’t pay good enough attention to you and how you were reacting. That’s on me.” 

                Once Sherlock’s eyes refocussed on John, he could see the full gamut of emotions flicker by: worry, doubt, self-deprecation, appreciation, understanding, and at last, trust. Acknowledgment of it didn’t need to be spoken, so Sherlock’s gaze slid away off towards the door. 

                “I’ve left you hanging,” Sherlock eventually murmured. 

                John shrugged, unbothered. 

                “Give you an hour, you’ll be good to go again, I think.” He pulled Sherlock in for a hug. “Okay?” 

                “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry you have to keep repeating yourself. I’d never be so patient doing so if our roles were reversed.” 

                “I don’t believe that for a second,” John replied. “You’ve been taking care of me from the day we met. And maybe you didn’t _say_ a lot, but you definitely reiterated _being there_ over and over. That’s your way. If something happened to me, you’d have pulled an all-nighter to research everything I even possibly could need and be interrogating me about which option I want the second I woke up the next morning, and keep double-checking every step of the way. Maybe you wouldn’t do it like _I_ do, but I wouldn’t want you to, anyway.” 

                Sherlock reached up and took John’s face in both hands, his thumbs tracking along his cheeks, and looking at John like wasn’t quite real. That was John’s favourite expression on Sherlock – it reminded him that his deep-seated but slowly-retreating fear Sherlock would grow bored of him was completely irrational. He patted one of Sherlock’s hands on his face and gave him a smile. 

                “An hour, then,” Sherlock eventually said. 

                “Give or take. You want breakfast?” 

                “No.” 

                To punctuate the refusal, he tugged John down to the mattress and slithered around him to ensure he couldn’t escape. 

                “And I don’t either, got it,” John said, chuckling.               

~ 

                Indeed, an hour and a half later they were back at it. John didn’t opt for conservatism this time, per se, but had definitely taken Sherlock’s natural sensitivity into better account. That had netted the unexpected delight of Sherlock murmuring and keening almost constantly when he sat in John’s lap once more. Success thrilled through his veins as he added a third finger and Sherlock grappled fruitlessly to hold John’s too-short hair. Sherlock’s hips began rolling gently of their own accord, and John’s mouth watered from watching. For a moment, Sherlock’s heavy-lidded eyes met John’s. His previously-dazed expression faded like fog under sunlight, and he snatched up a condom left alongside them from the previous attempt. John’s hand was preoccupied, after all. Sherlock tore it open and rolled it on; John shivered from the sudden touch. 

                “Lube?” Sherlock asked breathlessly. 

                 John nodded before stealing a sloppy bite of a kiss while Sherlock pawed blindly for the lubricant. For a moment, Sherlock could feel John beginning to retreat, so he ground himself down on John’s fingers suggestively. 

                “No, stay. Even if it’s just a few seconds.” He leant in and took John’s earlobe in his teeth. “You’re _exactly_ where I want you.”

                “Holy _fuck_ ,” John gasped.

                Sherlock took the opportunity to help himself to the lube and pump John’s cock a few times to cover it. Once done, he wiped his hands unceremoniously on the sheets to rid himself of the worst of the leftovers.

                “I’m ready, have me, I’m yours,” Sherlock said.

                “Up, then. I love you,” John replied.

                The reminder lit Sherlock’s face with a bright smile as he rose up on his knees. John held his lover’s hip with one hand and his own cock with the other to guide Sherlock down. Shivers wracked both of them as the head began pressing in, but John kept them on task with encouraging whispers. Sherlock was so overwhelmed that for a few moments, he didn’t know whether to go up or down and relied entirely on John. As he adjusted and took the head, his breathing grew a little shallow; he hadn’t anticipated feeling this intensely, but it was good, _so_ good. Every new inch he took only deepened his fugue. He felt a hand at his face and opened his fluttering eyelids to see John calling to him. Ever concerned, even though Sherlock could see the flush in his shoulders and the effect in his expression.

                “M’fine. You’re incredible,” Sherlock slurred.

                He braced himself while holding John around his neck and rolled his hips experimentally. The all-encompassing sensation in response caused a gut-driven, low moan to seep out of him. John circled his arms tight around Sherlock and dug in with more bruising kisses at his neck, and Sherlock’s head lolled back, tempting his partner further. Since this was his first go, and also because of how overwhelmed he was, Sherlock didn’t manage a steady rhythm in working his hips, not that either of them much cared. Sherlock’s hands never stopped moving, pawing, and even digging into John’s shoulder blades. Unlike his first encounter with John, he didn’t feel even a flicker of dread – he simply didn’t have the mental capacity for it because it was so much. All he wanted was _more_ , and as long as humanly possible.

                 John raked Sherlock’s curls back from his face and buried his fingers in his hair.

                “Good?” he breathed.

                Well beyond speech at the moment, Sherlock chose to respond by enthusiastically squeezing everything in his lower half, making John give a thready, high-pitched noise. John put them forehead to forehead, or at least as close as they could be, considering Sherlock’s uneven rise and fall riding his dick.

                “Open your eyes, look at me.”

                Sherlock did, and as he locked gaze with John, something almost like vertigo swept down from his head, and he gasped involuntarily. The simple act of just watching his partner, eyes dark and face all but swollen from lusty heat, added a whole new dimension to it he never could have anticipated. They’d been trading off orgasms up until now, and Sherlock had very much enjoyed watching John’s bodily response; seeing it happen mutually made it _so_ much more potent. John was clearly feeling it, too, because his expression grew downright _voracious_.

                For his part, John always had liked meeting eyes with his partners as something of a finishing move, and in Sherlock he’d gotten something special. His expression didn’t just slacken; it all but _melted_ , from his wilting eyebrows to his gaping jaw. John could feel the shock of it in Sherlock’s skin, since they were so close. The effect was palpable, and John couldn’t get enough of it. He pulled a hand away from Sherlock to begin stroking his cock hard and fast.

                “You’re there, you’re _right_ there, hit it a little harder. Keep your eyes on me.”

                Keeping himself from coming was proving to be quite possibly the greatest struggle of John’s life, but he kept reminding himself it would be worth it. He was much more practised at pacing and controlling himself – it was up to him to make sure Sherlock could just purely enjoy himself. Sherlock obliged, grinding his hips down hard enough his eyelids fluttered, but he managed to hold gaze.

                Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure what _harder_ meant in this position, but whatever he did worked. He buried his face in John’s neck and came, mouth gibbering but otherwise silent. John’s roughened hands gripped Sherlock’s hips tight and at last he let himself go as well, loving every second of the extra tightness provided from Sherlock’s climax. They relaxed into each other, John especially mashing his mouth against the side of Sherlock’s head affectionately. After a few seconds, John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s thigh in suggestion; he got the message and hoisted himself up and off. He flopped to the mattress and stared up into the ceiling. John was well-acquainted enough with post-coital Sherlock now to know he needed a bit before he’d get back to speaking again, so he slid out of bed to do away with the condom and get something to clean his partner up with.

                When he returned, he found Sherlock still lying there staring up, but now with tear tracks running straight down the sides of his face to his ears. John all but leapt back into bed, the disturbance shaking Sherlock free of whatever he’d been thinking about. He noted John’s panicked expression, but merely gave him a shy smile and gestured for John to bow his head for a kiss along his hairline.

                “I love you,” Sherlock eventually said, slowly and with considerable husk in his voice.

                For John, the planet might as well have shifted on its axis. He thought he’d done a good job being patient and understanding in waiting for Sherlock to speak the sentiment. That it was really just a redundancy and only had symbolic weight. After all, Sherlock _did_ love him, of that there was no doubt. Sure, that had been rationalization, but even considering that, he’d had no idea just how _wrong_ he’d been. He didn’t just need to hear it – he could go the rest of his life only ever hearing Sherlock say that over and over again, irrespective of question or context. _Dinner? I love you. Where’s the sugar? I love you. You’re being a twat. I love you._

John struggled to get himself back together, much to Sherlock’s still-slightly-teary amusement. Sherlock teased at the hair around his ear to bring him back to himself. He dove right into a proper kiss, both of his own hands sandwiching Sherlock’s face.

                “Love you too,” he finally replied. He bit the inside of his cheek and forced himself not to start crying too. “You’re a mess. Sit up, you git.”

                Sherlock did as instructed with a throaty chuckle. He kept John in a loose embrace as he was cleaned up, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Once finished, John took the opportunity and settled himself back into Sherlock’s lap. He used the heel of his palm to swipe aside the remnants of Sherlock’s emotional outburst, deciding to let Sherlock decide when and on what to speak again. At length, Sherlock picked up one of John’s hands and kissed the inside of his wrist. John flushed despite himself, because sex be damned, he had never received anything that felt so intimate in his life.

                “You’re hungry,” Sherlock rumbled. “Let’s go out. Celebratory breakfast is in order. And I think…a long walk, afterward. Maybe the park.” 

                “Good idea. But are you sure about a walk, though? You’re…going to be sore,” John replied as he got up to let Sherlock out of bed. 

                Sherlock raised his arms up and stretched; the soreness was there, but could be managed easily enough. He could see out the open bedroom door to the living room. The sun was streaming in through the partially-curtained windows; it was clearly going to be a nice day. He smiled to himself and shook his head. 

                “I’ll be okay.” He turned and took John’s hand to lead him in for a shower. “Yes, quite all right, I think.”

 

 


End file.
